I love a good pen. And notebooks. I love to take an empty notebook, write anything and everything in it until it's full, and then keep it lined up on a shelf with others, like it's a favorite book. But what I end up writing with wonderful black-inked gel pens in those notebooks of various sizes are grocery lists, phone numbers, reminders. Most frequently, the lovely notebook waits for that all-important confirmation number after a long phone call involving lots of hold time and painstaking explanations of what that lovely phone company needs to fix for me this time. Meal plans, something funny a child said, a note about an article I want to look up or a recipe hastily jotted down.
This is what I write.
And I love blogging. I have, uh, several. And mostly those blogs just wait. They wait until inspiration comes, until naptime comes, until 9pm comes, until the house and my mind are quiet.
But I want to write.
I want the poems to drip from me again, like they did in college. I want all the insights I've been uncovering in my heart-mind to be properly explicated. I need to write out all my thoughts about becoming better, learning, loving, grieving. I need to sort these ideas out in a place where I can go back over them again and again. I must record where I am right now so I can look back and remember. I don't have any illusions that these insights are brilliant. They won't change your life, if in fact you get to read any of them. But they are mine.
But I don't write. Year after year, ideas come and--at varying speeds--get pushed out again. Blog series after blog series gets started and remains unfinished, profound images appear and then--when ignored--disperse themselves into the chaos of my scrambled brain, and whole blogs die out from neglect.
At some point I will give in to my enduring desire, need, instinct to write. I don't know when, but I have a feeling it's coming soon. I feel it building up in me. Whenever I do it, you who are privileged to know me will see that I am more myself than I have been in a long time.
What a relief it will be.
4 comments:
That's how my notebooks are, full of random stuff. I wanted them to be just wonderful, literary ideas, but they are grocery lists, people I need to call, notes on good classes at church, words I like, etc.
I remember Grandma posting something on her blog about the notebooks Grandpa would write in. They were random, like ours, and somehow that made me prouder of mine.
Do you not consider this a piece of writing? I do. Well written, too. So what if I'm your mother? I know writing when I see it.
Thanks for sharing Ann. I love the way you write, so I am hoping to be one of the lucky ones that gets to read more.
Hope you are well. I miss seeing you.
don't be down uh-huh uh-huh.
but i already told you that.
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