Days and days and days go by. In the rare spare seconds not consumed by brutally relentless work or parenting, I want to sleep or to just be, staring mindlessly at the telly with a glass of wine in my hand or occasionally reading. No matter how many blog posts I compose in my head in the shower or driving to work, by the time I actually get a minute to sit down and write, every last bit of creativity or motivation suddenly evaporates. It’s not that the well has run dry; there is certainly plenty in the depths that I want to say and share. But the bucket has a leak and I worry sometimes that it is fatally damaged and cannot be mended. Yet, although I continully come up empty handed, I don’t want to throw it away completely.
I had an idea awhile back that the only way I could continue this was to stop writing so many long, lovingly composed letters to the internet, and instead start sending postcards for now. This approach doesn’t come naturally to me, which is probably why it failed before. I seem to have this inbuilt sense that unless there is a need for stark brevity, a post has to comprise so many words before ending. Sort of like I always know if I have left a cookie half eaten somewhere, it bothers to me to stop short. And- leaving aside my sense that I have to go at a certain length I’ve always thought that adopting this method might end up being akin to something resembling a slightly longer Twitter message, and Twitter tends to bug me. Having thought about why that is, I realised it’s because I become flustered by the sense of constant, distracting chatter and not knowing how to find my place in that seemingly overwhelming conversation.
However, I’m going to try this again and see if I can find my way back from feeling like this has become yet another chore that I never have time to complete properly, and enjoying the basic act of drawing up water.