life according to me
Day 3 of NaNoWriMo is waning but my energy to keep writing hasn’t and that feeling has been present each day so far — sort of. And I’m ahead of myself, so allow me an explanation: I think this will be an important place to think about what I’m learning about myself and writing throughout this process and not so much a place to catch anyone up on exactly what I’m writing.
…until NaNoWriMo begins and although I feel my planning is not only coming along nicely, it’s fun. That’s always a good sign, isn’t it?
I have a loose schedule figured out for myself:
Rise early (okay, so earlier than waiting until the MoH backs out of the driveway) at 7:00
Coffee and yogurt while rereading previous day’s work.
In the last few days that I’ve been adjusting to participating in NaNoWriMo, I’ve been planning. Thinking and planning. Thinking, and reading, listening, remembering, and planning. What I’ve not been doing is planning a plot for my novel. Wait.
My. Novel.
The commuter traffic outside my office window has slowed somewhat, but it’s Friday, so the expected busy, busy of anyone riding the weekend’s momentum has made for a much more noisy morning than I like. Gardeners have started their mowers, weed whackers, blowers. I can hear garbage trucks in the distance.
It’s Wednesday. Remember Wordless Wednesdays?
Once upon a time, while many others were busy posting an image or a cartoon to take a bit of a blogging break midweek, I was busy finding excuses about why I wasn’t wordless and thinking how could anyone ever be wordless? I made jokes about my seemingly endless stream of whatever came to mind while others took a deep breath. Looked around. And although the words are coming now, they don’t add up to much. I stop to think, searching for something to put here, to have a bit of meaning other than to say what I’m saying.
See? Not much.
I know I should be wanting to hop on a soapbox about politics, or shake my fist at the injustices in the world. Complain about the cost of health insurance, or the size of the plastic debris soup “island” growing in the Pacific right now. I will say we recycle more than we throw away, avoid water in throw away plastic bottles, and reuse as much as we can, but our efforts seem paltry as I observe effects of others’ unconcerned attitudes.
No, I don’t feel like writing about those things right now.
noun
The state or process that occurs when no more of something can be absorbed, combined with, or added.
This would be me on food.
Eating it, looking at it, purchasing it, cooking it, cleaning it up, and most of all — writing about it. I’m saturated. In fact, I’m probably super-saturated, but I won’t go into that because I’d have to Google the term to remember what I learned in chemistry a million years ago.
But I’m there.
I’m hoping my brain will thank me for easing up on it, because at the rate I’m going, being one-dimensional is right around the corner. Although I’m sure there are some perks to being one-dimensional — like being able to fit in tight spaces, weighing less, qualifying as a cast member of The Real Housewives of You Fill in the Blank (or all three simultaneously) — but I’d rather not find out.
I don’t want to have to follow “expert” advice about how to improve Google rankings, or format posts, tag photographs, or use social media to improve traffic. Focus? Why do I have to have one? It makes me weary thinking about it.
Licking my index finger and holding it up to see which way the wind is blowing is good enough for me. If anything, it would allow for the unexpected instead of the planned. Whimsey. Bird-walking.
No lists. Ugh.
Instead, a promise to myself to enjoy writing — for me.
And guess what? I found a writing group that will start meeting next month — nothing formal — just show up with a notebook. They supply the prompts.
I’m thinking this will be a hellavalot easier than losing 50 lbs.
Wait. Isn’t that sort of where all of this started?
Go figure.
I read a piece by Ann Lamott yesterday telling me something I already knew. If I’d just commit to writing for 30 minutes a day, in a year I’d have something. Of course, “something” is going to depend on the person who has to read it, but at least it would be something to work with.
I rarely write anything any more. I write about food, and to be honest, I’ve begun to take more time with that, but I believe it’s because it’s the only writing I do. It’s writing, so it has to count for something. I mull over it in the same way I would any kind of writing I do, because mulling over it is what I do best. It’s ridiculous on most days, but it is what it is.
To some extent, photographs have taken the place of my writing. They seem to capture my thoughts and express what I would say, or write, if given time. Sure, I have time, but I’m not very good at using it if it’s at the end of a day instead of the beginning.
I love how mornings begin slowly. The light creeps into the day and the air is fresh, begging me to step out to walk and stretch my bones and mind; encouraging me to exercise my thinking — priming my ideas and memories.
Writing at night is not something I enjoy. It often mirrors my energy, or the lack thereof. I sit in front of my Mac and a different kind of quiet than I’m familiar with, the shush of the dishwasher pulsing in the room, and not much else. It doesn’t exactly add up to anything I can be thoughtful about.
But that’s another excuse, isn’t it.
Yes.
But I’ve written, haven’t I?
Not quite 30 minutes. In fact, not a respectable 10.
But still.
It’s not Wednesday, and I’m rarely wordless, but I thought this pretty much summed up where my head is these days. The sad thing is, it isn’t like it wasn’t watered or didn’t have light. It just never really got any attention. Oh well, huh?
Oh well.
It’s cold here today — even more so than it normally is in the spring. The clouds are indiscernible, resembling more of a blanket cast over our heads. There was drizzle on the patio this afternoon as well, and I willingly pulled a thick sweatshirt over my head wishing I had an excellent book to cozy up with on the couch instead of in bed at the long end of a day.
I’ve been thinking quite a bit about my days lately — this business of getting up and sort of “hop-to-it” attitude of being in front of my Mac. It’s been over two years now that I’ve not been an active member of the employed crowd, and yet I’ve created this sort of routine quite by accident. It’s living and breathing, too, because it’s evolved into more than what it was even a year ago. I’m not entirely comfortable with that.
But here I am, still.
Wondering and thinking.
Mulling over the options and possibilities.
Thinking.
You thought I’d given up, hadn’t you?
Not a chance. In fact, I’m trying to figure out how to get a hold of a few more hours a day, still. Just to do with them as I please. Like a shell you might find on the beach and turn over in your hand, wondering what you might find.
Like that.
If you’re reading this, I appreciate you.
Some day, maybe I’ll figure out how to write here again.
Truly.
William Zinsser says, “To write well about your life you only have to be true to yourself.”
I knew that. It doesn’t make it easier to choose to delve into something I don’t feel like delving into, however, and I recognize all the signs of avoidance — like grabbing my broom to rid the stairs of the dust bunnies that have taken up residence since we got rid of the carpet.
They’re huge, shadowy puffs that seemingly morph from one corner to another, gathering cat hair and our life’s dentritus with each pair of passing feet.
I see them as I trudge up and down to refill my coffee cup or half-heartedly perform some chore and marvel that they appear so quickly. They’re fascinating until they become a larger mass, swept to the bottom of the stairs waiting to be scooped into a dust pan and into the trash along with my determination.
* * *
I’m tired of thinking about food, about writing about food. Tired of organizing my life around the planning and shopping, organizing and preparing of food. If I needed just one scapegoat for my lack of productivity, it would be that, and yet the amount of time it takes contradicts any lack of productivity.
I’m tired of thinking about food. Tired. But that will most likely change at lunchtime.
* * *
I’ve been trying to decide whether it’s better to classify myself as a procrastinator, or dreamer. Drifty is more like it. Drifting like those dust bunnies from one point to another with little or no substance or anchor. Well, not quite that dramatic, but puffing along from one whim to the next and incapable of moving of its own volition. Lacking initiative.
Meh.
* * *
It was foggy outside this morning when I woke up and the residual dampness has given the air a smell that comes only when raindrops first hit the asphalt. I stand on the patio in the slight chill, my not so willing to be outside this early in the morning toes curling against the flagstones, and I breathe deeply. The trees rustle with the slight breeze and I’m surprised to hear a bird’s call I don’t recognize, wondering where it’s coming from and why I haven’t noticed it before. Happy thing.
* * *
I just finished Blessings by Anna Quindlan. It’s about identity and the effect family can have on it — or not. It’s about quite a bit more than that, but when I talk about a book I’ve read I somehow find myself feeling like I’m completing a book report and have to supress the urge to run screaming from the room. I’ll find myself later picking this one up to read parts of again because Quindlan’s writing has that effect on me, most likely because I can wallow in long passages of description and deep delving into a character’s thoughts to a level not unlike that of my dust ball analysis. Unfortunately, I read just before I go to sleep each night and not many pages at that these days. Any influence her words have on me is lost in the jumble that has been my dreams recently, and since I still can’t quite give myself permission to read during the day, my thinking is lost and with it any inspiration to write.
Why a person needs to give herself permission to read during the day is fairly stupid.
* * *
You’re wondering about the silly asterisks right? Me, too. But it’s the only way that I could actually sit down and write something today. Anything.
And so I did. I’d call that being true to myself.
Or avoiding being true to myself, which is probably more the case.