I haven’t written much this year.
Or the year before that.
I used to do it a lot though…what happened?
I mean, it was different before. Writing for me was as natural as sinning–I did it that much. I just never questioned why I wrote so much, I just wrote, and wrote, and wrote. As surely as the sun would rise, the ink of my complex soul would fill the blank space on the monitor each night, even in the midst of a colossal of other commitments. But at some point, it just lost its sense of belonging in my daily landscape. In a way, it just didn’t seem worth it anymore. I was tired of writing…that was, until the past two weeks.
In an instant, as Drake would say, things went from 0 to 100. Or, in not-so-fancy biblical terms, it was like the Isarelites wandering in the desert for 40 years–followed by Joshua and Caleb partying it up in the Promised Land. The tables turned drastically, from the old covenant, to the new. I found myself writing at home, at work, on the subway–I was writing as a sort of escape from the same activities that pushed my writing into exile! Right now I feel like I can write a dang book! It probably wouldn’t gonna get published or anything and I’m not even sure how that process works, but breathing literary life into the pale pages on the monitor each day has brought me joy like never before. And what’s cool is that I know exactly what sparked this. But the trigger to this rush for pounding literary junk on to a Word Document is rather embarrassing. Perhaps I’ll share some time in the future, but simply not right now as I have no idea who or if anyone will read this. It’s not so much that I mind others reading, I just don’t want that person reading it. Sounds pretty sketchy, but please bear with me. Anyhow, one thing is for certain. This blog is up and running and I look forward to telling the tales of life on Second Avenue.