A friend and I one summer each carried a three ring binder. It contained the continuing saga of marrying our favorite rock stars. We read them to each other every day. It passed a whole summer for us. We wrote every day. A new episode. Portrait of the Artist as Virgin.
During confirmation classes, I wrote letters for my friends which were mash notes to the boys they "liked." Everyone wanted one. I hasten to add none of the aforementioned missives ended in the hands of the boys they were addressed to. So my attempts at being Cyrano didn't actually win the heart of anyone. Just a little sexual release for all involved.
But somehow, I didn't actually keep writing the way I might have. As a young girl, I wrote every day. Every day. Nonsense and ephemera, but writing nonetheless. It's an exercise every writer needs. And I stopped sometime around having children.
I began this blog to get myself back to what used to be the most natural thing in the world. I wouldn't have thought of it as discipline. It was just part of me. Who I was. I feel like someone who has suddenly taken a strange disliking toward her favorite food. What gives?
Time constraints are not the answer. I have time. I lack inclination. I used to enjoy creating stories for myself. Now, not so much.
I am about to decide I have morphed into a reader. No day goes by that I don't read. And I don't mean the backs of cereal boxes. I've read 50 books this year and innumerable magazines. And that seems to fill the space that used to only be filled by writing.
It all makes me a bit sad. But I'm resistant to any more improvement projects for me at this point. Nagging myself is getting old.
So hello being a reader.
