Writing: The Meta Edition

It’s Sunday, not quite afternoon, and I have ideas- more than ideas- lists!- for post after post on this blog. If I know Amy, she does, too.  But then I think, I’ll go get a coffee first. Then I’ll start my novella. But instead, I spend 20 minutes in a Pinterest daze. I’ll make more lists. I might cross off a few things.

How do people balance life + writing? Life takes up a lot of time and energy, that’s for sure, leaving little room to process all the events, decisions, non-decisions, and loose ends. What I should do is process it all through the writing. As Amy said, just get it out there.

I have good intentions. I start things. I make lists and outlines. I subscribe to writing blogs and save articles about writing. I read books and blogs that I deem inspirational. But I end up comparing it all to me and getting frustrated. I end up with nothing to show for it.

Maybe I don’t even need all those tips and articles. My good intentions could simply be ways of procrastinating.

One of these days. A prolific stream will flow from brain to fingers, and it will not be stopped.

At least, that’s how I used to write. From ages seven (when I mastered basic spelling and sentence structure, sort of) until I was about 19 or 20, I just wrote. It defined me. I was a writer. I’m not saying a great writer, but if a writer is simply defined by someone who writes– well, that was me. I didn’t look back much, but by my senior year of high school I had developed enough discipline to sit down and edit a little. But for the most part, I just put pen to paper and kept on going. I filled up notebook after notebook. Some are journals, most are short stories or other fiction of the unfinished type.

Less than two weeks from now, I am making a journey to Madison for the specific task of boxing up and cleaning out what remains of my childhood bedroom. What remains, for the most part, are several heavy boxes-worth of all my writings. Perhaps some of these works will be scan- and blog-worthy, although I wouldn’t count on it. I hope that when I see all of this, I won’t get bogged down with reading- it won’t be great, I know that- precocious, yes, but not great. Instead, I just hope to be reminded of who I am. That is someone who has always written, but can no longer really call herself a writer if she doesn’t write much anymore. I’m not sure what happened- if life got in the way, especially all-consuming relationships, or if college snuffed the fun out of it, or if -more likely- the internet did (thank God I grew up without the internet!), but I am making a declaration here today that I want to call myself a writer again.

And when I’m in my hometown, maybe I’ll peruse this tiny library for inspiration. Photo by me, from the last time I visited Madison, back in June.