I miss writing. I've been reading like a hound since I've been on break from school. Library books, used books I bought years ago, old emails from the courtship of Euf and I, my old Nanowrimo novel. Reading, reading, reading. And Euf's been writing like a hound. After I decided the novel was not worth editing, we decided he could adapt it into a screenplay. And he is. Which is awesome. It's been fun tossing off inciting incidents and visual motifs together.
But all this reading makes me miss writing. I wrote in journals pretty regularly from the seventh grade, all the way up to my NYC days. And when I moved to SF, I started blogging. In the last year though, where has the outlet been? Missing.
I've been tossing around short story ideas, reading books with writing exercises, even jotting down shitty poetry, but it all feels like so much pressure. And then I remembered my neglected blog. So here I am. What better way to get into the habit again.
Because reading old stuff reminded me that I like recording my personal history, no matter how pretentious or self-indulgent it is. I always have. Otherwise your memories just become vague foggy visuals. When I read through the old emails Euf and I used to send back in 2001, I was shocked how many stories I'd forgotten. Brief moments of meaningfulness to me that just evaporated over time.
Anyway, I'm back. For now. We'll see how long this lasts.
