I spend much of my day writing. I have spent much of my life writing. I write to know what I think.
I write to get out the words in my head.I write to make sense of the world. I write to pass the time and stave off boredom.
I write to document my life and the world around me. I write to help people. I write to feel some connection.
I write to entertain myself. I write to twiddle the twists and turns of my often melodramatic mind. I write to tell stories.
I write to ask questions. I write to analyze the complex. I write to understand the intricacies of the simple.
I write to organize my life. I write to remember why it is joyful. I write to hold onto what I have lost.
I write so that I will have those perfect words when I speak. I write to make friends. I write to change the world.
I write to argue that I am right, right, right. I write to express my love and admiration.
I write because I have something to say and I have found my voice with which to speak it. I write to catch on to my dreams.
I write to bring them into fruition. I write so I don’t forget the olive oil. I write to keep my brain going.
I write because I love and I love because I write.
I am a writer. There is no cure for it.
Lately, I have found one of my recent mediums to be silent.
There was an incident involving a purple ball and a cup of coffee and the laptop keyboard.
It was not pretty. The computer groaned to a halt. The next day, the computer came back, but not the keyboard.
I could get on line, but I could not write anything . If you’ve been wondering where I was, I was sitting there, clicking through my
links wanting to join in on the conversation but being unable to, feeling voiceless… something I haven’t felt for a very long time.
The first night I was too upset to write. The next day, I decided to take advantage of the extra time that I would have used to tend
my blog and sat down with my novel. I wrote.
I wrote hard and fast and in the past two days of naptime netlessness, I wrote about 4500 words and 14 pages in my novel.
Yes, she lives. I think I have found her heart and her center.
I don’t know what it is that has kept me from giving my novel the attention it deserves. I know that I have been reluctant.
I know that I have been uninspired, even afraid to take it up.
I have not been excited, but I kept at it, in fits and starts until I could write my way back in.
Is it only this period of being offline that has gotten me back in?
Have I been using the internet as a way to avoid the good and hard work of writing a novel?
Or has the internet, the discussion, the inspiration, the reflection, the creativity,
has it been pushing me to find my voice and take my place in the writing?
Maybe it was both, and I just needed the push of the coffee disaster to allow me to turn my attention back to my book.
Whatever it was, it feels good to have The Story back.
(BTW, if you are reading this post, either my tech problems have been solved,
or I have found a way to transfer this from my offline PC to the limping internet Mac.)