overdue

Of all of the romantic notions about writers, the one that I can’t seem to purge from my mind/psyche is the “writers carry beautiful journals and write in them whenever they have a beautiful thought.” Never mind the inherent perspicuity and splendor of the prose, the real draw is the automatic, habitual, impulse to write the thought down. That one’s inclination to get the words on paper should overpower everything else—that’s what makes a writer, right?

I can’t recall exactly when I obtained my first journal (perhaps the diary I had in sixth grade should count?) but I do know that they’ve appeared about one-per-year since that point. I welcome each one with fresh enthusiasm and verve, promising myself that this time, this journal, will be the One that will solidify my status as “writer.”

My journals are lined up nice and tidy on one of my bookshelves. Each one has about two weeks worth of entries, followed by a billion blank pages.

I started this blog in part to cure me of this problem. I figured the possibility of an audience might encourage me to put my thoughts down, invoking the idealized writer I (apparently) so desperately want to be.

And, judging by the length of time between this post and the previous post, I’ve all but shelved this blog. I hate myself a little bit for that. I also hate the fact that my friend the disciplinarian might be right. Perhaps it is a matter of sitting down to write, even when I don’t really have much going.

I’m going to keep trying. Practice makes perfect.

Or better yet, “After the final no there comes a yes…”