i keep coming back here eventually, to write and to write. i can’t tell you how many blog posts i have in draft over the last six months. i can’t finish them — they start and i just can’t finish them. i lose interest, i lose steam, i lose concentration. i tell myself i shouldn’t say it out loud, i can’t finish the thoughts i had so well-composed on the train, on the walk, in the bathroom, wherever blog posts used to come from. even sitting in front of the computer not more than 10 minutes before. i don’t know what’s happened. i don’t even know if anyone reads this blog anymore for the lack of posting anything new or original or ANYthing with any sort of regularity or consistency at this point.
it’s disappointing, it’s scary, it’s boring. part of the reason i write it is to get something — an audience, a reaction, a book deal, an interaction with people outside of myself. but part of it is just for practice — to keep a writer’s spirit alive in me, to know that i can write something every day. that was always part of the deal. to write something every day, regardless of how banal the subject matter, and regardless of the audience. to know that there was the potential for an audience to give me some sort of spur to take the action, but to write every day to earn some sort of discipline about it all. that’s at least what every writing book and every great (?) writer (lamott, king, bradbury) says you’re supposed to do, regardless of how you feel about it.
and it seems to make sense. because if you do that, you’re liable to surprise yourself. it’s like automatic writing or going to therapy. when you just do something and take an action, sometimes there are unintended consequences. this post was going to be about how much i missed kissing. making out. having intimate moments with someone. being touched — not even super overtly sexually, but just being close with someone. it’s been over five years, and maybe i’m ready to start to get there. to be open to that sort of situation; to being vulnerable. that’s what this post was going to be about. but mostly about kissing. waxing rhapsodic yet again about kissing. i’m so hung up on it. it means the world to me. there’s a part of me that thinks i could do it for hours, yet it’s terribly important that someone do it well for that to be a possibility. i feel like i have very high standards/expectations for a kiss/kisser. there’s so many elements that come into play. i could write endless instructions or guidelines or short fiction about just a kiss. i think a single kiss could conceivably take 20, 30 minutes if you play your cards right. seriously. see … this is the kind of thing this post was going to be about.
but instead it turned out to be about how i don’t write anymore and i’m not sure why. partly because i just don’t know where my brain’s been and partly because i think i’ve been censoring myself. i think that in equal force, i’ve been putting myself more and more out there in social media land and as i’ve done that i’ve been equally pulling back. there are those in my life who would tell you they’d be hard pressed to tell you that they’ve noticed, but they also haven’t been reading this blog since 2004, when every agony and ecstasy was laid out in precise detail for the world to analyze, should they want to take the time to go over the lame details.
i don’t know. all i know is it’s late and it’s time for bed and it’s been way too long since i’ve had the occasion to be kissed. but, i guess that’s neither here nor there. maybe what i should be concentrating on in my day to day is writing more and leaving the rest out in the universe, as per usual. write more, worry less. yeah, easier said than done, also as per usual. but at least, i have something for today. which is something more than i have had in an long time.