I've been trundling about my daily business under the mantle of some serious misery for the last five months. It's amazing to write that number and realize it really has been so long since I last felt unencumbered.
I keep trying to put my finger on precisely what it is that makes me so desperate, and all the usual suspects line up next to the height chart, and some are defiant (money), some are ashamed (eating), some are virtuous (writing), and some refuse to turn around and be identified.
So I make another cup of coffee, crack the spine on another book and log in another train ride.
I am adding another instrument with which I can notch the wall.
A writer without writing is like a snail without a shell. Sure, it's heavy as fuck, and you curse the damn thing as you slime a trail up the garden walk, but damn it, it's yours, it found you, you made it, and it loves you as you love it, and you'd die if someone tore it from your back.
So I've been starting journal entries and abandoning them, beginning stories and deleting them, writing blog entries for an hour and then when the internet craps out and deletes them, just walking away from the computer and making another cup of coffee, sitting down and watching Lost.
Bob practically yelled at me last night to finish the story I started almost four years ago. I kept fighting him because I haven't written on it in so long, I didn't think I had it left. I made a thousand excuses, and then I opened the document and stared at it for an hour.
Tonight I started writing again, and maybe it's garbage, but it's my garbage, and I'm lugging it around until it's done.
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