Planning to write is not writing. Outlining, researching, talking to people about what you're doing, none of that is writing. Writing is writing.
~ E.L. Doctorow
I have been doing a lot of thinking about writing publicly, as in resurrecting the blog.
Ever since (and maybe a bit before) I heard those words "president-elect Donald Trump" come out of my kitchen radio on that fateful day, I have felt less inclined to keep quiet and more like I have something to say. Out loud. And not just to the cat.
In the last couple of years, my eyes have been opened not only to the depth of misogyny and racism and intolerance of whomever might be the "them" of the moment still so prevalent and entrenched in this land of the free and home of the brave but also made me really angry about it. It has also made me angry that I hadn't realized just how safe and isolated my life is. And how luxurious.
I have a house and a car, neither of which has been threatened or destroyed by wildfire or hurricane or tsunami or earthquake. I have heat and electricity and drinkable hot and cold running water. (Hot running water is my absolute most favorite modern luxury. There aren't too many things in life better than a nice, long, hot shower.) I have plenty of clothes and food. I have a tiny bit of money in the bank.
As I was becoming more angry, I was also becoming more grateful. Every night, especially if it has been a difficult day and I am having trouble falling asleep, I make a gratitude list. If job stress is keeping me awake, it can be difficult to be grateful that I am employed, but I can still be grateful that I don't live in a war zone, and the roof is still attached to the house.
2018 has been a challenging year. A number of major events which I knew were inevitable came about in fairly quick succession. They were the kinds of things which I expected to be horribly devastating and had no idea how I would handle. I didn't always handle them well, and there were moments when I definitely wanted the world to stop so that I could get off, but I survived them all not too much the worse for wear.
I might write about those events. I might just write about food and yarn and books and movies. I might rant about the injustices of the world. But I am pretty sure that I need to stop thinking about writing and start writing.
