Virginia Was Right

It’s occurred to me in the past few months that I’m not writing nearly as much as I have been. (a fact that has been pointed out twice by two separate people) And it’s further occurred to me that this happens to a lot of bloggers when they reach the two year mark. Many of us get tired of writing, of searching for things to write; many take ‘breaks’ to recharge their creative juices. Most of them do not return. And I wonder which column I’m going to fall into. I love writing, I always have. I’ve kept a journal for years; I used to write letters with frequency that delighted the postal service. Until I realized no one wrote back. Or cared when I stopped. The journal, however, has been my constant travel companion since I started traveling over a decade ago. I’ve found it has become my memory when traveling. I remember events much clearer if I write while I’m in the midst of or very shortly after the event. And I love to re-read them in the later years. I think I spend more time reading journals than looking at the photos.

So when my sister suggested I start the blog, after my initial reservations, it seemed quite a natural progression for me, to keep everyone abreast of my flitting around. And I’ve loved it, actually. I still keep the journal but there is something about this forum that I find quite appealing that I can’t quite seem to name. And I’m not ready to give it up yet, but I am tired. I think this stems from the fact that my computer sits on the coffee table in the living room and either I sit on the floor with my legs under the table (which always gives me bruises and it’s just about short skirt season) or I sit on the sofa with the laptop in my lap. Neither is comfortable for lengthy writing and the idea of spending a couple of hours at the office after an entire day at the office is just more than I can bear. I used to be able to sneak in some writing at the old office, because they simply didn’t care and had no idea what I was working on (or not working on) and if I was typing, they assumed I was busy. Plus I had quite a commute each day when I could sit and muse over ideas. I know have a two minute commute and work in a small office.

All of this is to say, I’m coming to understand Virginia Woolf’s theory of a room of one’s own. I don’t feel like writing because I’m uncomfortable with my set up at the house. If my computer were lighter, I’d take it with me to other locations, like the beach or a nice café, but it’s old and heavy and the battery is a bit crap, so I’m stuck at the house. And something happens when I sit down to the keyboard that doesn’t happen when I pull out my journal. There is something about process that is missing right now and I can definitely see the effects of it. I’ve got stories backed up waiting to be written but I just can’t bring myself to do so. (Ironic that I have the opposite of writer’s block; which would be called what? Writer’s apathy?) I need a commute. I need dedicated time where no one can reach me. I don't need a room, I need a desk. I’m so high maintenance.

So, hang in there with me while I figure out where to find this dedicated time, to think of ideas, to compose my entries for you; I’ll start writing again soon. I’m almost sure I will.