The Meaning of Life

Last night I made some chicken-cheese-corn chowder. It’s pretty damned good, if I do say so myself. Nate liked it, too, which is always a good sign. I’ve been cooking a lot more lately. I think that’s due to a couple of things. I recently finished Julie and Julia, which, if you haven’t read the book, details a year in the life of an outer-boroughs secretary while she tries to cook 500+ Julia Child recipes in a year. The other reason I think I’m cooking more is because I decided to take the month of November off from writing.

To recharge creatively was the idea, but there’s been an unintended side effect of not writing. I’ve been in a serious funk. I started blaming a lot of different things: work, not exercising regularly right now, hormones (I am pregnant, after all). But then I realized it’s none of those things. When I’m not writing, I feel at a loss. Writing makes me feel like I have a purpose in the world, like I’m doing something important (even if it’s only important to me). So when I’m not writing, I look around and think, is this it? Is this my life?

I know it’s a good life. I have a great husband, I love my house, I have good friends and family who love me, and oh yeah, I’m going to have a baby soon! These are all tremendous things. But somehow I still find myself searching for more. Luckily, only two more weeks until December. Then I can start working on my next book.