When Real Life is More Interesting Than Blogs

Sweet Jesus, I have not written anything on this blog for two months. It seemed like everything was going fine: I was writing up a storm, blogging once or twice a week. Dammit, this is what being a real writer feels like, I thought to myself. And then everything stopped.

In my writing life.

But in my real life, things went crazy. I was in two weddings, a family member passed away, I broke up with my boyfriend of 5 years (5 years...egads), went to my first music festival, started thinking about dating again for the first time in 5 years (5 years...god). In the last two months, I've been to Denver, Montana, Brussels, San Diego, D.C. and Kenya. Yep Kenya. And it was like this:

And this:

And this:

Photos by the inestimable Geoff Gailey... :(

A few months ago I read a post by Kiersten White where she said that part of the reason she was able to write a book in 9 days (what a badass, right?!) is that she didn't have much of a social life. I don't know how much that's true, and how much she was just being modest (I suspect the second), but I certainly see it in my own life. Writing is what I do when I'm lonely. But when life is great, it's almost like...I don't need it.

I've seen a lot of people on the blogosphere talk about how you balance writing with work and the busy times. But what I need to know is how you balance writing with the GOOD times. I love my job, I love my family, I love my friends and I love a whole bunch of smaller things too, like kayaking and backpacking and aikido and reading nonfiction about evolution and the drug war. I want to catch up on Archer so I can talk to my friends about it, apply for a masters degree in soil ecology (thrilling right?) and learn Spanish. I WANT WANT WANT to do so many things, and writing is only one of them.

Frankly, though, that's crap. It's excuses. Writing isn't just something I or any of us do just because we're bored. It's a part of our identity and more importantly, it's something we believe in. I have three books sitting on my computer in various states of not-finished-yet begging to be brought to life. But for a few weeks now, I haven't had any life to give them. I was too busy using it. Life though is all about balance, and this one of many glasses on the mini-bar of my life that has been waiting too long to get a refill.

So, I'm curious: How all do people make the time to write when they're gloriously happy, not angsty, lonely artists? How did Hemingway write books in between hunting big game and sailing around the world? How  did Hunter S. Thompson find the fortitude to take a break from the sex and drugs and put words down on typewriter? When life is thrilling and dangerous, how do you find the will and focus to write?