Something happened to my brain and I think I know what. Seven months ago I rejoined the workforce after a 12-year homemaking stint and since then I haven't added a word to the novel I'd been writing for three years. The story and characters I created, which had once haunted my dreams and wakeful thoughts, are now mute. It's been weeks since my last blog. Sadly, I feel I've lost the writer's voice in the mental clutter of my new life.

I imagine the human brain like a beautiful, mysterious mansion with endless rooms and secret passageways. The doors of some rooms are open while others are shut. Some doors are locked, but maybe not forever. Rooms occasionally get new furniture, perhaps new curtains or paint. Dust may collect on the furniture; Dust bunnies gather in the corners. Other rooms are bare, waiting for purpose. Some rooms haven't even been discovered yet.

My new job has caused my brain to stretch in new directions, filling up previously unused spaces and revisiting dormant ones. It's like a team of contractors were hired to rewire, plumb, and remodel the whole dang thing. Because my new job takes up a good chunk of the day, the rest of my life has turned into a series of "have to"'s. Somehow the door to my cranial writer's room, the space where I ponder, listen, and create, got kicked shut. Now I'm dashing through the mansion with a jangling ring of skeleton keys trying to find it. It may take months.