I’ve been a writer for 24 years.

On my 40th birthday, I thought “I’ve always wanted to write, and since I’m about halfway through life, I’d better get to it.” So I did. Since then I’ve written four books and half of a fifth (three published), four short stories (one published), and assorted poems. Before you think that’s not much to show for 24 years, you should know I raised two sons, nurtured a successful marriage, carried for two parents, and worked full-time for 16 of those years.

Actually, it’s not too shabby.

For the last year and a half, I haven’t been able to call myself a writer. We bought a lot in a terrific neighborhood, selected a builder, sold our home, dealt with the detrius of 27 years in the same house, and moved into a rental with our older son. I worked full-time until I retired in May, but beginning last fall, my health has constantly reminded me that I ignored it for 30 years. In February, our younger son and his wife presented us with a beautiful granddaughter who has become one of the great joys of our life. I have been fortunate to have the invitation and the means to travel to their home on three separate occasions to help with childcare while they work. A wonderful (except for the health issues), busy life, and I am so, so grateful.

What happens to a writer who can’t write?

When I’m writing on a regular basis, I always have plot and character developments playing in the background of whatever else I’m doing, and as soon as my mind is free, those thoughts push their way into my consciousness like ocean waves rushing to fill a hole in the sand. For years and years I have fallen asleep to the sound of my characters voices in my head, or closed my eyes to see the details of a setting, and fallen asleep trying to come up with adequate words to make it real to a reader.

But when I’m not writing, there is nothing there to roll in and fill the holes, so instead my mind grabs whatever other thoughts are hanging around, leftover from the day. I have sat up unable to sleep while my mind tried to figure where I’m going to put my clothes in the new house. One night I got up to search online about having a grill on the porch with no vent. I worry about the remaining furniture we have no room for in the new house, and how I’m going to get rid of it. I worry about my older son being alone when we leave, and the dog being home alone all day. I think about the ways I let my parents down caring for them in their old age, and I worry how to save my sons the same problems I had with my folks. I replay news stories in my head and have to get up because my active imagination is creating horrific, haunting scenes to go along with whatever the news showed. Worst of all, I personalize the stories and imagine these same horrible things happening to people I love.

Worry, fear, anxiety…why can’t it be joy and happiness that fills my unoccupied mind?

It’s taken me some time to realize what the problem is. It was a simple as the question “What did I used to think about when I slept like a baby every night?” Time to get back to writing. I am a better wife, better mother, better friend–better everything–when I write every day.

That’s what happens when a writer doesn’t write.