Every time I start to stir thoughts of writing about, the same questions come up and plague me…but what about the new vlogbrothers vlog? But what about the new mental_floss upload? What’s BuzzFeed been up to recently? And of course, the inevitable rabbit hole into which I disappear far too frequently…Facebook.
I really enjoy writing and I need to do more of it…to get better at it…so that more people want to read my stuff…and I can eventually make a living at it. Right now I am so incredibly enamored with lexicon that it drives me crazy when my beloved little sister continually abbreviates and cuts off words. Totally was bad enough, but now it’s “totes”. And totes has joined whatevs and God knows what else. My fascination with language is awash with horror at such abominations. And I digress.
I have a very happy cat tumbling into her little dreamworld at my knee and my laptop in, in fact, my lap. Which is covered with a duvet and sheets made from a material best described as “flammable”. I got it for free from a friend; this is what we do when we are relatively poor (which, as we live in the United States, means the poor are still among the richest people in the world. Ahem.); we sleep in sheets around which open flames are a terrifying notion.
The humidifier is burbling away on my dresser near my bed: this is at once reassuring and quite concerning. True, the air here is rarefied AND absurdly dry, and it turns my sinuses into a solid congealed block in the middle of my face. But the constant ejection of steam into my room is, for some reason, a little worrisome. What did I do to require this special care, for which I now owe my mother, who graciously procured the humidifier for me on a shopping trip, $20? Supposedly it will help clear my nasal passages and increase mucous flow. That I even need concern myself with mucous flow is frustrating.
The resting mind in recovery is a tricky one. I keep waiting for the moment when I realize I’ve forgotten something fantastically huge, like I was supposed to pickup a truckload of lobster for some event. This is beyond absurd: I have no means of conveying such a parcel, but my waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop brain begs to differ. Truly, all is well: I went to work today and did my job pretty well, I came home, I showered long and hard in effort to combat the sinus nightmare, I attended my skin and body perfunctorily and with luxurious grace, giving time to smooth in lotions to angry eczema wounds and hard-to-reach places. I did all the right things: fed myself, fed my cat, washed the dishes, tidied my home, corresponded with friends. I made tea. Still, angst looms large, and requires constant reassurance otherwise.
The last time a writer friend who is in the process of finishing his first novel visited I asked him what was the hardest part and he said committing the time to doing it every day, making it really a job. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this, but I hold this particular individual in incredibly high esteem and I appreciate his entertaining my query. It’s hard to sit and write, sit and DO, when all the distractions exist and are SO RIGHT THERE. The Facebook, the Buzzfeed, the nine million messages coming in on the cell phone all the time. The cat, the candle, the humidifier burble and steam. The ever-cooling cup of tea I must finish, so brush my teeth, so off to bed. Goodnight.