I'm trying. And I am full of good excuses.
I thought, this morning while walking around the neighborhood hunting pups with the Binns, that I should write a memoir. A sort of memoir. A "what I can remember of my life without having to look anything up" memoir. A storytelling, then. Because my memory is often both better and worse than most. Remembering odd things like obscure numbers but forgetting names and events. A storytelling of my life based on my current circumstances and current disposition. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now it seems like a lot of work that I don't have time for based on a payoff that may never come and a recollection that will almost certainly upset a great number of people and cause my mother to worry (needlessly) more than she already does. I mean, sure if it's a best seller like Eggers had it would be a great way to launch a career. More likely - nothing. And I find it hard enough to spare a few minutes for the blog. Let alone the novel. And now somehow I am also going to find time to pen facts?
At least I was able to storyboard my first chapter the other day. And am on my way towards finishing up the outline of my 3rd (4th-5th, the order is at yet indistinct) chapter. So there is that. But this is all based on scribbling down ideas while at work or out on walks while the kid get impatient with standing still. I like to call myself a writer (though there are far too many associations with the title these days, at least I no longer feel obliged to live up to the name). But I used to be a writer in the sense of "I'll write when I am inspired, you can't force genius." And now my options are write at the most uninspired times of day for myself (my "lunch" break or just getting off work too tired to do much of anything -- otherwise I am passed out or sleepily parenting). This is what I have been able to manage so far. Clearly not a good sign.
Gina said that it took her at least a good month to adjust to writing in the off hours that she had. She had a novel to finish and only those hours. It was a simple choice: write in the off hours (slowly building up steam) or don't and give up. I'm not ready to give up.
Work piles up. It gets up and grins at you. Say's "Lookie here, mother fucker, this is it. This is everything." It's hard to get past work. To say that work doesn't affect my family life would be absurd. It does. It affects my family life, my personal life, my life outside the job. It invades my days off and asks more of me than I am paid for. It does. It's a job. Within reason, I tend to answer.
Let me know how things are going with you, dear readers (the few of you that exist). Let me know how it is, out in that world that it doesn't seem like I still live in. Maybe we'll make something collaborative out of this silly old blog after all.
"Go back to sleep."
- A Perfect Circle, "Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums"
Cogitatio et Memoria
- family motto