I have this self-imposed goal of writing every weekday night. It’s Wednesday night at 9:30, which means I should be writing. Instead, I am sitting on my bed researching ski boots while half-watching reruns of Parks and Recreation and texting with a friend. My mind is swimming with Chipotle’s stubborn refusal to compromise on their pork, a tentative list of who might deserve some glitter mail, and the knowledge that the ski boots I’ve had for 14 years are at least a half-size too small for my feet. I’m hip deep in procrastination. Writing is the last thing I want to do right now. Sleeping is the first thing.
Sometimes writing is what keeps me strong by giving me a voice. Sometimes it’s a boulder hanging over my head, and I am slowly gnawing my way through the rope keeping it aloft. Sometimes it’s my confessional, my confidante, my savior. Sometimes it’s a catty seventh grade girl pointing at me while telling everyone what a loser I am. I never know what to expect from day-to-day. I never know how it will go.
Writing would be much easier if every blog could be like an episode of Seinfeld, the show about nothing. I’d never have to worry about making sense, creating flow, delivering something meaningful. I could go with the stream-of-consciousness method. I would write whatever came into my head, no judgment and no self-criticism, and no room for self-aggrandizement. The act of writing can be more important than what is said, right? In my blog about nothing, creative process trumps final outcome.
This is either the most brilliant, brave thing I’ve ever imagined or the best-conceived con job I’ve ever pulled over on myself as a justification for slop. It’s my blog. I’ll just write whatever I want. And as long as the last episode doesn’t find me wearing an orange jumpsuit and sitting in prison, I’ll be just fine. It worked for Jerry Seinfeld.