reason excuse or another, lately I haven’t been writing. I’ve fallen out of the habit. It feels hard. I have no ideas, or I have ideas but no words. What I want most to write about is too personal for a public space. So I choose to write nothing at all. My writing muscles have grown rusty.
Last night I read Cory Taylor’s Questions for Me About Dying from the July 31st, 2017 issue of The New Yorker. These two sentences have been rolling around my brain ever since:
“It is my bliss, this thing called writing, and it has been since my school days. It isn’t just the practice that enthralls me—it’s everything else that goes with it, all the habits of mind.”
Writing, like the lap pool on a sunny afternoon, or the dinner table with good friends on a Saturday evening, is a happy place for me. I miss curling up with my notebook and a favorite pen, or opening my laptop to start a draft.
Over the years, writing has helped me find my joy, reflect on my gratitude and push through my grief. When writing I capture precious moments and take risks. And yet, over the last few months I slipped out of the habit with shocking ease and not very much remorse.
Recently though, reminders,-or maybe nudges- to write pop up every time I turn a corner. It’s like like the good-for-you-friend who knows when to say, “Enough with the excuses. Get back to it.” It’s time for me to end the slump.
“Writing, even if, most of the time, you are only doing it in your head, shapes the world, and makes it bearable.” said Taylor, as she wrote about her own dying.
Thank you Stacey, Beth, Betsy, Melanie, Deb, Lanny, and Kathleen for providing a space and a nudge to write every week at Two Writing Teachers.