For quite some time, I’ve been hoping, wanting to write more than the occasional microblog masquerading as a post on some social medium or other. But, alas, it has not come to pass despite my best efforts, best intentions. First, there was the deal to teach creative writing a few years back, where I naïvely imagined having time to write along with the students as they worked on their own creative pieces; with my teaching experience, how could I have been so stupid? Then, there was the purchase of the MacBook Pro on which I now type, thinking that I could write as I lay in bed, prior to falling asleep each night, but that was a big nope—present experience excluded. Then came the migration of my own site to WordPress, thinking that maybe I just needed the right medium, the right tool, so to speak, but that, too, turned out to be a bust. And then came the pandemic, but I more or less knew better, laughing along with nearly nineteen thousand other people at Brooklynite Brandy Jensen’s mid-March musing on would-be writers, myself included:
Only I didn’t really think that I would have the time, for I was certainly not home alone. Sure, I was now able to work from home, but there was still kid management, distance learning for my students, increased tech duties for co-workers (and now students and parents) who needed help navigating uncharted waters, to say nothing of N—’s increasing challenges with MS. But it was fun to imagine that maybe, just maybe, I could find some time here and there to hammer out a few words that could become a blog post. Yet, creeping up on four months of being at home, this is the first real writing I’m doing that goes beyond email or my endless social media refrains to either stay at home or, if you absolutely must go out, to wear a mask. The unfinished drivel I started for an edChat on Twitter I was unable to take part in doesn’t count.
The notion to start on that memoir (of sorts) of N— still burns and begs to get out, as does the tale of the murder of A—’s dad so many Christmases ago, but I doubt myself too much and just don’t know where or how or even if I should start; see: doubt.
So I started here, journaling of sorts. Just writing for the sake of writing to coax the words from my fingers across the keyboard (noisy as it is; good thing N— has her headphones in and doesn’t typically fall asleep until well past midnight) as a means of practice. Not that I expect this practice to make perfect, but the repetition of it all is a good habit to fall into, just as is the habit of regular exercise. Over the past month or so I’ve been able to resume somewhat regular workouts, running a few times a week and cycling (indoors and out) more than that. It’s good for my body, and this is good for my mind—even if it’s not good for the poor eyes who happen upon this.
So, with battery dwindling, and my need for sleep increasing, I’ll retire this bit of BS to leave you, Dear Reader, free to go read something of greater interest and/or import. Semi-pro-tip: Skip the Bolton book.
Thanks for reading.
Watching Me Fall 