I did it. Not like Stephen Colbert, who claims omniscience for effect, but for real, as real as writing is. My drafts folder was full of neglected posts, left for more important things, or overcome by events. Two weeks ago a friend set her own writing goals, and I also made one: finish those drafts by Halloween. The results are there for all to see, which is, and has been, very few.
Monday I begin a solo performance class, and November will be five days old. Back in August’s glow I conceived a sensible plan: September to fool around in the beautiful Northwest summer, then a couple stories a month to the end of the year, to ease back into Real Writing. There’s a novel I just started two years ago after months of studies and planning, but that’s too intimidating, or I made it too hard. Notebooks full of story ideas, and the directory full of drafts or starts, seems digestible. I’ve always wanted to write, I have claimed. I’m out of excuses, more or less.
You have been writing. The blog is writing. Writing is writing. A friend says this. He is a convincing, friendly Zeus. Still, it’s not Real like Plato’s Real, with a capital R.
A job would be helpful, at least a short one, to overcome the blows of the last months and round out the year with a filled-in cash hole. But it isn’t required; there is no emergency. How much is the job fear’s appeal for distraction?
Summer 2011 a friend suggests I blog about Hawaii and what I found there. What a great idea, I thought, a way to look inward while being out there, and keep the motor running. It was something I needed. I’ve been glad to share, grateful for comments, likewise voices. But it takes a lot of energy and I think it’s time to direct my self-indulgence elsewhere.
So I plan to post more intermittently. I feel energized, at least sometimes. We all have work to do.