I’m sitting on my couch with an afghan on my lap and a watered-down Paloma in front of me on the coffee table, and the cursor on the screen in front of me is yelling, each blink accusing me of negligence. (Yes, I realize it’s August and there’s no need for the blanket on my lap. It’s actually a little warm in here, but the blanket provides more than just warmth. It helps balance the laptop on my lap and gives me a sense of security that I know I don’t really need, but… here we are.) The cursor is yelling because I’m supposed to be spending more time writing, but I’ve been slacking. This morning in one of the weekly emails I get from writing/marketing people I follow for ideas and inspiration I read (and to say that I read it is giving myself more credit than I deserve; it’s more accurate to say I skimmed) the following quote:
Habits practiced once a week aren’t habits at all. They’re obligations.Jeff Goins
The rest of this week’s edition was about establishing a writing habit or practice. I need to go back and read the whole thing. I know there are some good tips and reminders in it from what I saw.
I know I’m out of practice. I can see it and feel it. I even skipped my gratitude journal all weekend. Now because I feel any less grateful, mind you. Maybe it’s because I’ve been busy having a life. I’ve been accused of being too concerned about other people’s lives and not having one of my own, but that’s far from the truth. I might go as far as saying I’m close to living my best life. Yes, it wasn’t by choice at the beginning, but the life I’m living now is on my terms and I’m with the people I love.
But I want to get back to writing more. I’ve spent too much time watching tv, scrolling on my phone (not a new problem by any stretch of the imagination), and not enough time reading and writing. Maybe I should get back to the Morning Pages practice. Or just keep the tv turned off more of the time.
Maybe I’m someone who only writes when they are frustrated, sad, angry, or depressed. I had plenty to write about those emotions over the last year. They inspired a few poems and angst-filled posts. A year ago today I shared a poem comparing my marriage to expired spices. I thought it was a pretty good poem. And yes, my current love life has also inspired a couple of poems, but there’s so much more I could say. I was going to say that I’m saying those things aloud and in person, but that’s not 100% accurate either. I say a lot, but I could say more. I tend to assume that people know what I’m feeling without having to say it out loud. That’s something else I’m still working on.
I was organizing my jewelry cabinet this afternoon (after spending way too much time untangling a few necklaces) and I decided to box up a few items I don’t wear very often and some that I’m just not ready to wear again (if ever) and when I went to put them away in a drawer of my bedside table, I noticed my pile of journals. You might expect that I would have many more than this, but there were so many years when I didn’t write at all. The whole afternoon would have disappeared if I was to open one up, so I resisted the temptation. But like I’ve said before, I need to get back at it.