It's the end of Thanksgiving weekend. I'd originally planned to put up the tree today, but I think it'll wait. Not feeling super festive.
Eve is sitting beside me watching some creepy educational YouTube video featuring Bob the Train. Her toes keep getting caught in the computer cord and every few seconds she reaches over to type on the keyboard, hoping I've already forgotten her previous attempt. I think she needs a laptop for Christmas; she's a little obsessed with typing.
I used to blog so much more. I hate that word. I journaled for the first time in literally months a few nights ago. Why did I stop? Having so little time to do the thing I love most means that when I do actually sit down to write, I feel an unbelievable pressure to attempt to make every single word profitable. Otherwise, what's the point? It's just another time-wasting activity. How dare I try to exclusively commodify something that once brought me such joy? Now it feels like a chore, a job. An obligation that doesn't yield much besides frustration and inadequacy and dissatisfaction.
I enrolled in a writing class in the hopes that it would jumpstart my creativity and remind me to love the thing I love for the sake of it, not for the money. I mean, capitalism is a part of all of our lives, as much as I hate it, so if I have to package and sell traumas to feel financially stable, so be it. But I don't want that to be all there is.
And it's like, the only thing you have to do in order to be a writer is write. You don't have to have a stellar byline or a book deal or appear on a 30 Under 30 list or win a Man Booker. You just have to open your notebook, iPhone notes app, laptop, or tablet and fucking write.
So, I'm writing. This is a revelation I have every few months or so and then I forget. There are lots of things I forget to do. I can be terrible with details. I'm a dreamer. Left to my own devices, I'll float through life and let someone else pick up the slack, make the phone calls, sweep up the detritus I should have noticed. It's the way I'm hardwired and any deviation from my norm requires fairly intense forethought. I try and fail and try and fail and try and try and try. And forget.
It's never too late to change, right? And it's never too late to accept that you're going to have to keep restarting, going to have to keep reminding yourself, going to have to keep waking up, going to have to keep forgiving yourself. It's all fits and starts, at this point, and understanding these shortcomings and committing yourself to starting fresh when necessary is the only way to stay sane. Try to be better, be better, err, start again.
A fresh page. A new morning. A blinking cursor, a poised pen. Another attempt at self-forgiveness. Start again.