Think: Or Don't

an interruption in service


Here’s a problem. Writing essays that hew to a schedule and framework every week is hard. Especially when no one is pressuring you with deadlines or withholding much-needed money.

I think I need to change a category I committed to. Namely, the “Write” category. Because I don’t really like writing about writing.

It’s not that this isn’t relevant to my own life. It’s just—I don’t give a shit about explaining it to people. The utility of writing craft essays seems quite narrow to me, and I’ve got this thing about being useful. Also, there are kabillion other people holding forth on the topic of craft everywhere online. So, blah blah blah fishcakes, I don’t care.

No idea what to change the category to, though. Maybe “Read” will be better? I’m always reading. I’m not always fond of analyzing what I read, though. Not knowing my next step makes me feel anxious and unsettled.


Which is another problem: I’ve been feeling anxious lately. The reasons for this are mostly situational. I’m nearing my period, it’s been raining and cloudy nonstop for a while, I haven’t exercised properly, my normal work routine was interrupted by a new client (and therefore, time off), various twinges of upset in my family members: all of this is setting off my body’s alarms in an exaggerated, bullshit way.

Generally, one of those things is always happening, anyway: the weather’s shit, I’ve been immobile, my loved ones are struggling, there’s a lag in work routine, my stupid period comes every 25 days. But when they all pile on top of each other? Gross.


Here is a final problem: I have no zeal right now for writing. While I have ideas about topics, I lack the vigor required to pursue them in sentence form. I feel boring, sluggish, irritated. Pleasures that don’t involve a screen or typing or unravelling intellectual knots are the ones in my sights. I’ve started several drafts in the last few weeks. I could talk about how I hate the aesthetic of Easter pastels, or about a new troublesome puppy I just met, or how my kid is turning 18 soon and recently came out as trans (a timely occurrence!), or how much I’m looking forward to warmer weather, sunshine, training for a 10k, building our new front porch, etc.

But I feel so lazy at core. I just want to talk about these things with other humans versus synthesizing them for passive consumption. This could be a matter of my anticipation for being fully vaccinated soon - April 22! - and my impatience growing as simple things like hanging out on restaurant patios with friends or getting back into the pool at my old gym now seem closer at hand. Writing is a hard-won pleasure. It feels good, yes. But only after a lot of effort, wrangling, thought.

Lately, the pleasures I’ve sought out are dumb and mindless. Watching Marvel movies that I never sat all the way through. Ordering clothes online. Taking an afternoon nap surrounded by a pile of fresh library books. Embroidering a skirt I hope to wear this summer. Going through the Starbucks drive-thru with Jelly to order a dirty chai and get him a free pup cup. Such tiny things! Things that have been central topics of conversation with the tiny pod of people I can be with. I’m embarrassed at how much they matter.


Here’s a solution: maybe I just don’t mull over complexity right now. Maybe I don’t worry about making things that I can’t touch. Maybe rumination and cogitation can take a flying leap. I don’t want to be isolated anymore. I have failed the test as far as my introverted misanthropy is concerned. I am finally, fully sick of being in my house. I want to go places, in three-dimensions. I want to see people, up close, their whole face.

I’m tired of trying to temper all these feelings into sentences. I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of worrying. I miss being. I miss you all so much.

like what I make?