And so it goes. 

And so it goes. 

Words about stuff about words. 

Pinocchio of the Pen

From DeviantArt. 


It seems that I have not posted a blog since February. Hmmm. I've been quite the slacker. 


There are several reasons why I haven't been posting. First, and perhaps most relevant, is that I didn't think anybody was reading it. Maybe they aren't. Maybe nobody will read this one. However, this brings me to reason number 2. 


Reason 2 that I have not been posting: I have let myself forget about what I need to do to be part of the world. I have slipped in past months into a comfortable sort of conscious coma. I have avoided writing, despite knowing that writing is one of the few things that makes me feel connected to life, the universe, and everything. It is the image I hold in my mind of my 'real', or authentic, life. 


Like Pinnochio, I have longed to become 'real' without realizing that I already was. 


It started with a new job in the fall. I became a librarian, which is ridiculously fun, but carries its own freight in terms of stigmas and the feeling that I have given up on what has been my life-long dream to become a 'real' writer. How could I call myself an author if I had such a sizeable 'day job'?  Now I was on the hook for going to school again to earn the appropriate credential too. Where would I find time to write? Would I never become real?


My many measure of success, I've done okay. I've published five books to small success. I've been involved in many conferences and projects. But the holy grail has eluded me. I wanted (and still want) to be a writer who writes as a primary function, not as a side job or a fun hobby whenever time allows. This is what I would deem 'real'. 


And because of that, I have not been writing, not as much as I should be. I've resisted the urge, even when it tugs at me. Why would I do that? I've found distractions galore, Facebook being the prime culprit. How easy it is to fall into the pleasantly numbing and never-ending feed of silly videos and clever memes, the drama of friends' lives and the daily rantings of everyone in the world (almost literally)? As I spend hour after hour monitoring the ill-named news feed, I am conscious of time ticking, but seem unable to draw myself away from this. I might miss something. I might not see something clever that resonates with my nerdy core. I might miss a cat riding a vacuum cleaner. 


I've been in a media coma long enough. Here, in this space, I am committing to breaking out of this pixel shell that has contained me and lulled me into laziness. I am going to write every day and finish my new novel. I am going to stop telling myself that what I say does not matter. That is not a relevant point. It matters because I need to say it, not because anyone else needs to read it. 


Cutting strings. Hoping for the best. Encouragement welcome. 

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