One of my least favorite comments to hear, especially from a friend, is, "I don't have time to read." I literally always change that statement in my head to, "You don't MAKE time to read. It isn't a priority to you." And honestly, that's ok, but let's at least be real about it.
And yet, I say that statement all the time. I don't have time to work out, but really, I just hate working out. I don't have time to coupon, but really, I just hate nickel and diming, even though I know it all adds up and can be a game changer in terms of saving money.
But the one that's getting me right now is when someone compliments me on my writing. I say thanks, of course, but then I almost always respond that I wish I had more time for it. I don't post very often, because I like to sit and really think out all of my posts. That's part of the pleasure for me, having something to publish that has taken me to a new place emotionally. Maybe I have something that's weighing on my mind and I haven't yet decided how I feel about it. Hashing out a well thought blog post forces me to make up my mind about how I feel about a certain topic.
I can sit here and lament all of the things that take me away from writing, but it's just the same excuses a friend may make to me when she says she doesn't have time to read. They're just excuses and writing doesn't care about my excuses. It sits there and waits patiently for me to come back to it. Or not so patiently.
I'm out of practice. I've been out of practice since forever. I've never made writing a top priority, it's just been a little side hobby. But yesterday we were cleaning part of the basement and I found a little self published book I wrote in third grade. Good God, I took that stuff so seriously when I was eight. The book was perfect in every way. And it reminded me that I have always loved writing. Like loved loved. And even though that little book was full of mistakes and didn't make a lot of sense, my little eight year old brain needed to get that out. I laughed the hardest when at the end there was a little author bio and I wrote that this was my third book. I love that so much.
New Year's resolutions aren't really my thing. But I'm going to try. I'm going to take time that I don't really have. Like right now, Baby Girl is sitting across from me making beaded necklaces like they're going out of style, and the big kids are bickering over Wii Sports. There's a half dozen things I could be doing (I'm looking at you Facebook), but I am choosing to make this a priority.
I have a lot of things to say, in general. My friends know that I am a talker. Talking, and writing, help me decide how I feel about things. I was having a conversation with a co-worker a few weeks ago and we were talking about how sometimes it seems like certain people have made up their minds about how everything works. They're not adaptable. They do not process new ideas. He's a bit younger than me, so he asked me if that was how I felt. "Absolutely not," I said. "In fact, just the opposite. I hope that I am always open to having my opinion about things revised as I learn new things."
That's what I love about blogging. I am able to open this page and have a general idea about what I want to say, and then in the process I'll sometimes come to an entirely different conclusion that I had thought I would. And I love that. It's cathartic.
When I started this blog, I promised myself that I would never write a post about writing, or excusing why I hadn't been writing in awhile. (I hate reading those "I'm sorry, I've been so busy" posts.) Sorry if this is one.
But what I am resolving to do is just write. I'm not going to write what I think you want to read. I'm not trying to be the popular girl here. I'm writing for myself, purely. And if some of what I say interests you, that's wonderful. If not, that's cool too.
I am giving myself permission to do whatever the hell I want this year. Mostly all legal things, of course. But whatever the hell. I. want. Part of that is this, this thing, the blog, for whatever it's worth. This lifeline that reminds me that I am not just a sum of my parts, but a person with real thoughts. A person who is willing to adapt when I am presented with new ideas. I just need a platform to flesh out my feelings, a platform that doesn't include my three children, the most captive audience I have most days.
So there you go. Written in 30 minutes. Hastily proofread. No pictures.
Just like getting on the treadmill for that first mile, or reading the first chapter in a book.
Rough, but it's a start.