Obviously, not blogging.  Not even article writing (although I should).  Not freelance writing (again with the “should”).

No, I’ve been creative writing.  I’ve brainstormed a world and characters and a history, and I’ve been scribbling it down — pen to paper, ink staining my fingertips — for the past several days.  Each morning and night, when Maia sleeps, I take my notebook and pen onto the balcony and just write, until I have nothing more to say or she wakes up.

I love every moment of it, even the ones where I am staring blankly up at the sky, wondering if I’ll ever be able to put the scenarios in my head down onto paper.  I used to write stories constantly, although I never finished one (story of my life!), I had stopped for many, many years.  One of my goals to achieve while pregnant was finishing the first draft of a novel, just so I would have something to refine and show her in many years.

I’m counting my blog as that novel.

Now, I’m writing for myself.  And it’s something that Chris and I are bonding over.  I can ask him geeky questions that no one but the most hardcore lover of the fantasy genre would understand, and he helps me brainstorm.  When I’m in the middle of this world in my mind, sometimes I need an outsider’s perspective, and that’s where he comes to the rescue.  I explain a few key facts to him, and then I ask why are these things true, or how do these things relate to one another, or what’s a possible side effect of these? Sometimes he comes up with great stuff, sometimes not so great, but he always makes me think.

And I’m writing.  WRITING.

I could cry.