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Last year, I told myself I’d write more. I didn’t. Well…I did, but what I wrote was lists of things I need at the store, reminders to schedule the girls’ appointments, dates and phone numbers and random words that didn’t make sense when I found the scrap of paper weeks later. I wrote lines and lines and lines of code. I wrote in the margins of the great books I read – so.many.great.books. I wrote snippets of ideas for blog posts, essays, short stories, novels. I wrote witty (at least in my mind) Instagram posts. Sometimes, I even wrote so much there that my words spilled over into the comments section. Still, nothing I wrote anywhere last year feels meaningful or substantial or worthy.
It’s not that I have nothing to say. It is, in fact, the opposite. I have so much to say that I don’t know where to start. I don’t know how to start. Well, that’s not entirely true. I do know how to start. Just do it, I tell myself just like Nike tells us all to do. But, just doing it seems both too difficult and too easy.
Lately, I feel the weight of this world settling on me and I want, need to put a voice to the things I’m feeling, the things I’m thinking. But, I don’t want to just add more noise to the constant magpie cacophony that is the internet today. I want to say thoughtful things that help me process the chaos around me. At the same time, though, I find myself wanting to write about silly nonsensical things. Can I do both? Thoughtful nonsense. Is that a thing?
So, here I am, promising myself to write more in 2019. Some things don’t change. But, I am actually writing. Maybe some things do change on New Year’s Day.