to write

How many notebooks and journals have I filled? Numerous. I used to live to write. I would sequester myself in my room, light all my candles (at least 15), turn off my lights, burn a little incense, crack open my current "tablet," and put pen to paper. Sometimes I would rushwrite--write whatever came as fast as it came. Other times I would do character sketches, jot beautiful couplets unattached to anything else, or simply vent frustrations. When I felt especially down or when I lacked energy or spark, I would crank up some Tori Amos and just write her lyrics down as she sang them out.

And now? Time's a luxury. Time to write even more so. I know I can "make" time, but right now I feel I'm just scraping by. I try to write as much as I can, but when I've grabbed a few moments I usually can only think of how tired I am or how much stuff I have to do.

But I'm still trying. I'm still pushing my pen to paper. I don't know what will ever come of it. I'm not saying anything grand has to come of it. For me, for now, simply feeling good about creating is a dandy enough reason for me. So I'm grateful for the twenty minutes I took to write this post in addition to this one (nothing much, very off the top of my head). I'm hoping to put something up over there at least once a month. I think that's a goal I can achieve. We'll see.

Anyhow, happy new week to whomever happens to read these babblings of mine.