I have been thinking about writing for some time. Not just blogging or journaling, but actually writing. (I haven’t quite discovered what I mean by this, it’s all writing, but this falls in a different category for me.) I haven’t blogged for, um, a long time (you can check the previous post and do the math). And I love my blog. I pine for it. My last handwritten journal entry was almost 6 months ago.
But I have been writing. Did I tell you? I may have.
For more than a year now I’ve been thinking about writers. I’ve been thinking about how much time they have to actually think. Do nothing more than just think. Where did this come from? My lifestyle update to Working Full-time Mother had me juggling so much. Job with demanding, crazy (eventually unsafe – but that’s another story) travel, meal planning for family with diverse dietary needs, house that needs to be cleaned so those of us with allergies can actually open our eyes, take a deep breath, breathe and be able to sleep without sneezing.
And what was I thinking about?
What were we going to eat? When were we going to eat it? Do those shoes still fit? What’s for lunch? Snack? Why isn’t she reading more? Is she not interested in reading? I love reading, why doesn’t she read more books? What’s for dinner. Where is my underwear, I just did a load of laundry. I think my bra doesn’t fit anymore. I really want to sew that skirt. Did I plant the carrots? I never weeded the tomato patch, oh well, Seattle summers aren’t so conducive to tomato growing anyway, and I haven’t found a recipe I like for the green tomatoes that never ripen. When are we going to have a date night. What? I have to go to China again? I was just there. It’s 2am, I told you the label was approved and you can sew it in and only one can go into the polybag at a time and only 12 in a master carton. Don’t exceed the weight or there will be massive chargebacks. We need a date night. What? Our sitter has a social life?
These are all important things. This is how we live. But I need more…
At the advice of a
Then in June, I sat down at my computer and typed my first page. I started typing and 30 minutes later, I had my first piece of “writing”. And I love it. I bought a glass top desk. Just deep enough for my laptop. I bought a candle for the corner of my desk. I sit at the bedroom window. I open the curtain, light my candle, and open my laptop (don’t check facebook, don’t check pinterest, don’t check instagram) and I start typing. An hour later, I have pages. It just comes.
I haven’t shared. Well 1 piece with my
So today, I was thinking. I was just sitting and thinking. I wrote also. But what struck me as most awesome was that I did it. I put it out to the universe and the universe answered back. I wanted to be someone who thinks. Not that I don’t think. But I wanted to think about more than “Do I have 2 black matching socks?”.
The funny thing is, I never formally planned out that I would be a writer who could fit thinking into my daily routine. I actually never thought of myself as a writer. But I have been writing forever. I have had a journal, written letters to friends. I have a blog. And now I write.
I’m still not sure what this means, I’ll have to think about it.