When I started writing this blog, my schedule was very flexible. I had few demands on my time, and what demands I had were relatively forgiving. The mania that accompanied the start of the blog (look back, you’ll see that there were days I posted two, three, even four posts) was facilitated by my schedule. I often would duck into a Starbucks for twenty, thirty, or forty minutes, just to dash off a post – a post that might be a bit of my story, or that might be an account of new pretty thing capturing my attention, or that might just be a thought I had. I remember, fondly, that sensation: I have to get to a Starbucks so I can transfer these words in my mind to the page, so I can get them out to the world.
There was a bit of a narcissistic aspect to all that – a sense of urgency around “making myself known.” But more than that, I think, I was just… excited! It was fun! I was doing something new! I had lots to say! I had a place to say it! And while yes, I did care who read it, how many people read what I wrote, what they thought of my words, of my thoughts, and whether and how they engaged, none of that was why I was doing it. I was doing it… because it felt good, in and of itself. It felt healing. Useful.
More recently, my schedule has been far less forgiving. My days are full. My nights are full. I can’t remember the last time I “ducked into a Starbucks for twenty, thirty, or forty minutes” – I can’t remember the last time I had twenty, thirty, or forty unstructured minutes with which to do as I pleased.
I made brief mention of this the other day in this post, but I’ve lately been overcome with the excitement that followed a sort of… revelation? epiphany? I had about some writing I have long been dying to do, but haven’t been able to do in this particular venue. It may well be that that writing, as I suggested, pulls me away from this writing. I don’t know if that will happen.
Today, though, it had me dash into a bagel store (in which I’m typing this) to grab all of fifteen minutes to toss off just this tiny bit of writing. That’s exciting!
[Also, Craiyon is creepy, sometimes!]
