It's been several months since I made one of my "weekly" blog posts. It's funny how the days turn into weeks, weeks into months, and I still haven't done my dishes or called the IRS about setting up a payment plan for my 2014 taxes.
I started this post on January 1. I had high hopes of getting back in the blog saddle for the new year. I wrote the above paragraph and then pretty much everything went to shit for a couple of months, so I gave up on it -- America died. I got a terrible cold. Chester and I broke up. Ugh.
Now that I'm single and starting to feel human again, I'm writing. What a surprise! Writing is such a trip. If I'm too happy, I don't do it. If I'm too sad, I simply can't. I write everyday no matter what but it's not WRITING. It's this kind of shit:
I have journals upon notebooks upon IKEA bins full of daily complaining and scheming diary writing but far less WRITING writing. Maybe my journal writing is practice. I try to think of it that way, that my journals are equivalent to the hours of unrecorded music a musician plays while practicing. Maybe. But I HAVE TO write in my journals so that I am okay. I'm not doing literary experiments, practicing my scales, I'm talking myself down off the ledge. Every morning, every night. And sometimes the writing isn't even therapy, sometimes it's just me making sounds to myself. Chit-chattering to myself, like a parakeet with her mirror and bell.
Tonight, I'm going to my writing group. There are five of us. We've been meeting for at least three years. One of us has written a novel during that time, the rest of us have not.
I really want to be the next novel writer in the group! I also want to write a new one person show. I ALSO want to write a blog post every week. We'll see what happens. Today, I am optimistic.