I deleted the last blog post that I wrote. It was only up for about an hour. But that was long enough. In that hour, it demanded more of my energy than I wanted to give. So, it went away. Poof.
And I haven’t wanted to blog since. Not because of any fallout from that post, but because I acknowledged that I only have so much energy, that I can only put my attention and focus into so many things. And writing made the cut.
But the blog didn’t.
It’s a bit of a paradox, I know.
See, I wrote that last blog post on a Friday night. I spent Saturday morning revising and editing it.
And I didn’t write at all.
Not the kind of writing that makes an entire morning feel like a fifteen-minute coffee break – the kind of prose that creates and makes something new, instead of observing and interpreting. The kind of writing that comes from my imagination and my memories, twisted into a story to which only I know the ending.
So I’ve been writing that story. Every morning that I have off is devoted to it. Has been for the last six weeks or so. My alarm goes off at 7am and I get up. I leave my husband to his slumber and I go to Amsterdam. In my head. While I’m awake. But it’s like I’m dreaming too.
I’m dreaming up lives. Inventing people. Letting them sample opportunities and experience defeat. Allowing people who exist only in my mind to tell their stories through my fingers, typing their lives onto my screen.
And I like it. This creating business.
I like it a lot.
So much so that I can’t wait to finish. To print out my draft. To mark inconsistencies, rephrase awkwardness, and strike the boring parts. To strip it down and re-write until the world feels as real to a reader as it feels to me.
Until reading the page is like being in my brain. But only the awesome parts. Where other people live – people who’re infinitely more interesting and gutsy than I am, living the kind of life that I can only dream of.
And every day off, at 7am, it’s real. I’m awake, and I’m writing.
That’s the dream.