A Bike Wreck of Writings

Here we meet again – this screen, this keyboard, my Word Press dashboard for “Confessions in Carolina”.  There is the familiar, such as the feeling of my fingers typing feverishly as they interpret each word as it flows from my brain, down through my shoulders, surges through my arms, and brings life to pecking fingers that, with great hope and, I admit, a slight desperation for success, bring my thoughts to life.

I wish I could collect in one pile the number of hand-written journals I began in the past.  I could probably fill an entire bathtub.  What a sight that would be!  There would be the initial excitement of choosing a notebook and opening it to reveal handwritten page after page of my life’s past - my thoughts, insights, and interpretations – to a time I had long forgotten.  However, I would have to tell you how certain I am that my excitement would be quickly diminished, and the admiration for my own writing cut short, once I realized how each of these journals were only half-filled.  It would be like reading a really good book with the entire second half missing just after it starts to climax.  My current self would ask myself in those pages, “Why?  Why did you just stop?  Why did you just give up?  There’s some good stuff here, slacker!”  The pot calling the…um…pot black.  I would close the journal, realize the error of my judgement, and declare that I would no longer stop short again.  In fact, right now this very single moment I would go and write, but this time I would never stop.

BUT… 

First, just let me fill this sippy cup with milk.  OH, then I’ll vacuum up that crumbled granola bar that keeps sticking to the bottom of my socks!  Then, yes, Annie is right that the Legos really do need to become an amazing castle before we put them away.  Now it’s time to start dinner, then bathe the kids, read them books, and do a load of laundry…or two.  Then…well…as you can see, the day is quickly gone.

Days

months

and sadly

years

often pass me by.

My once exciting bathe in journals quickly becomes a total washout; they are nothing more than a story in which the character does this then that, but falls shy of ever reaching any real destination.  She seems to share so freely her experiences through a time span, but then falls on her face before reaching the finish line, and she actually falls so short that not even the fall gets the chance to make the record books.

The pot then asks, “Why, pot?  Why did you just stop writing?”

The collective result of these journals is that I have these time spans in which the account of my life is recorded, detailed and bold, but in between, during the times when I wasn’t writing, I have a vague memory of life’s happenings.  In those times I am missing the really good stuff – observations made, ideas formed, feelings felt, conclusions made, and lessons learned.  Sure, life was there and it did happen, but without record it just stands somewhere in time almost as thin and weightless as blank sheets of notebook paper.

Tonight I could have said that I was going to write.  Like every night I could have, instead, done a million other things first.  I could have just put some random tidbit of information on Facebook (both a writer’s friend and enemy).  I could have gotten into bed tired and worn out from the day, telling myself that, instead of tonight, tomorrow I would write again.  I could have blamed it on needing the extra time to create an entirely new blog, to watch the leaves change color, or for another holiday to pass.  I could have even gone so far, as I have before, to say that perhaps when the kids grow up I will write again.  Afterall, that’s only going be about 18 to 20 years away, right?

Let’s face it; writing is like riding a bike.  When you finally hop back on it can be a little rough at first, but you quickly get the hang of it.  Hopefully this time you remember to keep moving your feet.  As the past has shown, if you don’t keep moving the bike just stops, and suddenly you topple off without ever really reaching a destination.  Instead, you just lay there on the ground, blank, until time passes and you pick yourself back up, dusting yourself clean before hopping back on the bike.  Staring ahead you already know that the road turns every which way and that.  You are certain of the obstacles that will get in your way.  It is quite intimidating, but as you have learned from the past, no matter what, you must keep going until, perhaps, your writing actually takes you somewhere.  Hopefully this will be to a place where stopping no longer becomes an option.

Peddle harder this time, pot.  Peddle hard!

Advertisement