Does one come out swinging with something thought provoking and/or debate inducing? Fair Pay? Body Autonomy? Reproductive Choice? Political Hypocrisy? So much from which to choose.
Or does one ease back in quietly and tentatively since clearly one believes she has lost the ability to write and has thus been paralyzed by the thought of putting words on paper (or screen) in public?
Or perhaps one says fuck it, free writes, and then posts that bit of free writing without her usual bit of word crafting ineffectual editing in an attempt to jumpstart her thoughts and embrace a little bit more of the silliness life has to offer.
Ding Ding Ding!
And so there it is. Or here it is.
(Of course, first one should also probably stop referring to herself in the third person.)
I am in the middle of my fourth year of blogging. I started down this public ranting path exactly one-thousand, one-hundred, and ninety-four days ago and here on this one-thousand, one-hundred, and ninety-fourth day I sit meandering in benign thoughts about gardening, chocolate, and shaving my legs (which is something I may get to do now that the winter of discontent has finally moved on). It’s not exactly profound mental territory I find myself in today but that’s okay. Even the most cynical of us needs to pretend everything is roses and lollipops once in a while.
I have many plans for where the next one-thousand, one-hundred, and ninety-four days will take me. I have a vague but comforting direction I hope to go with my writing, this blog, and my search for an infinite source of chocolate (a noble quest, if I say so myself). And there are no if, ands, or buts in my way.
(Tangential aside: When I say one can never have too much chocolate does that mean I have a chocolate limit or am I a bottomless pit for the semi-sweetened seeds of the cacao tree? Discuss.)
What time gives me—what the promise of another one-thousand, one-hundred, and ninety-four days gives me–is the freedom to write what I want to write, write what I need to write, and write what I am compelled to write. Some of those words will go here on this slightly askew woman’s blog. The rest will hover somewhere between the stack of journals on my bedroom floor and maybe, if I’m lucky, a bookshelf near you, and most likely, somewhere in-between. It’s all good. That is the joy of writing: where our words end up is often not quite as important as simply having taken the time to write them down.
We writers write because we must. We write because somewhere between having a thought and putting that thought into words and onto paper there is an intangible moment of clarity that fills us so well that we must keep coming back for more. And so we write again.
Of course one has to go through pain, anguish, writer’s block, self-loathing, over-caffeination, and the trauma of running out of chocolate to get there, but still we write.
Here’s to another one-thousand one-hundred ninety-four days.