why?

Enough, friends. Here’s to the dance I hate, the one where I don’t write and don’t write and don’t write until it feels absolutely impossible, and also the ONLY THING THAT CAN SAVE ME. The heat from the winter writing frenzy still feels fresh and nearby. It feels like that was a few weeks ago that I was writing like mad, but it was three months. It’s amazing how time unmarked by intention can be so fleeting, and also so forgettable.

But I’m not here to whine and complain about myself and my weak sense of ambition, which I could easily do. As always, I have my reasons for doing what I do (and not doing what I…..don’t do). Including writing. Blah blah blah. WHATEVER. I’m writing now today here and the future is ahead of us.

So much change is on the horizon, it makes me dizzy - and also excited and hopeful. I’m thinking about:

-the person you are vs. the person you try to project
-finding the sparks
-being spontaneous
-being honest
-being transparent
-being sensitive (and being cool with it)

I also really really love the sentiment that women should refuse to wear shoes they can’t walk a mile in.

steam.

Everything feels off limits right now. Things need to be written about, but they can't be written, or I can't write them. A friend told me last week that I'm a private person. I know this, but I also forget. I so value the transparent, genuine people in my life - I forget that I am not always like that myself.

I think about all the creators - the people who choose to make something out of their lives and experiences. We put a slab of ourselves on display. We sing it, we write it, we paint it, we draw it, we photograph it. Private and public mix. But so often, at least in my experience, these creators can be intensely private people. Still, something inside stirs them to use their private lives as some sort of fuel for their art.

I went through a brief phase where I thought I wanted to write songs. I didn't think I was going to be a musician or anything like that, but I felt strongly that the best way I could express myself was by writing rhyming lyrics and putting them to a tune. I wrote a handful of mediocre-to-bad songs that I strummed out alone, on a guitar, late at night. Incidentally, most of these songs were tied to heartbreak, which has a way of bringing out the mediocre poet in all of us.

I can't tell you where this is going. I haven't been writing and its making me feel crazy. Its making me think of terrible analogies to describe my crazy feelings (which I have written and deleted just now). Its making my shoulders tight and my fists balled up and I can't sleep and when I do have crazy dreams filled with alligators and college acquaintances. So I decided to show up here tonight and let out some of that steam.

More to come, friends. Big things, too.