I love writing, I promise. I really do. This isn’t so obvious when you visit my page, especially lately. I know. I would apologize, but I’d rather just explain:
There are those things that you do that don’t really serve a purpose outside of just amusing you while simultaneously improving something about yourself, like knitting, or painting, or playing guitar. Something you haven’t mastered, but they’re still fun to do. I think they call them hobbies. Well, actually, along with knitting, painting, and playing guitar, I enjoy writing as well. In fact, I prefer it above all of those other things, and it’s partially because, unlike any of those other things, I think I might be good at it. At least I’m better at it than I am at playing guitar or knitting (I never actually learned to knit.I have the stuff for it. Still can’t create so much as a stitch.)
The problem with hobbies is that it’s hard to find the time to devote to them. After a long day of taking care of two extremely demanding kids, cleaning a very messy house, studying, making dinner, cleaning up said dinner, I don’t feel like doing anything other than sitting on my ass at the computer or on the couch and just zoning out. I want to play The Sims or watch netflix, and I am too exhausted, physically and mentally, to want to do anything that might challenge myself. I don’t want to think too hard. I want to do as little thinking as humanly possible for the rest of the night. Too much to ask?
But that’s not all there is to it. I’m writing right now while Vance watches some weird Japanese anime. It sounds like people with grating high-pitched voices are randomly being picked up and violently jiggled mid-sentence. (Think cat yodeling) I’m struggling to concentrate, but, BUT, it’s almost 10 and I am still here, writing away. By this time of night, my attention span is devastatingly short. Writing this short entry is eating away at my time, and none of this is good for the fate of this blog. My drafts folder, as well as my Windows Documents folder is full of incomplete pieces. It’s terrible. I blame the internet and children’s programming.
Lets just say that I have the time and the privacy to write. The things are clean, the kids are asleep, Vance is downstairs perusing Reddit, and it is still early enough that an article in Reason magazine can still hold my attention through to completion. It all sounds good, yes? Well, sometimes writing is hard. If I write about the things that I want to write about, the things that I think I should write about, sometimes it means confronting things I have been avoiding. It means digging up the past and reliving the things I have been trying for a very long time to forget. Sometimes, when I recount some of the things from the past, I start to panic, and I get dizzy, and nauseous. Why would I voluntarily put myself through that? I guess I feel like writing is, in some ways, safer than talking.
No one says I have to do all that. I mean, I just need to write some stuff and put it on my blog. It doesn’t need to be all heavy and gross, right?
But, damn, playing the Sims is fun.