filler.
All the good intentions fly out the window. Today was so long. Coffee at 9:30, a booksellers' forum until 2, and then in the store from three until nine, and back again tomorrow at 10. I'm loving it, apart from the normal (and somewhat unavoidable) frustrations of not knowing how to do all the things, and be useful and proactive, ALREADY.
But somewhere along the line I seem to have dropped my writing mojo, such as it ever was. I've owed reviews to T. for ages and ages and a draft is written but it's overwritten and ovewrought and I don't really want to look at it. Movie reviews have been ... they get written, but I constantly feel like I'm using too many words to say too little. And then here - here is one big white page.
The only way out of this hole is to write through it, but where, I wonder? If I read less on the interwebs, will I write more? Have I spun out my LJ time? I don't think so. I don't really like writing on my real-name blog, for whatever reason. But I started to feel self-conscious here and I don't know how to shake it. And there's so much I'd like to write about. Stupid things like BPAL and my newfound nail polish infatuation. Big, wonderful things like how I walk my tiny walk to work and I think about S. and our place and how I love Greenpoint and this new job and him. And loving so many things makes me even more aware of all the things I have always wanted to change. I wind up writing here about the process of wanting to change things, and sometimes I feel like it's always the same words and the same things, but then I look at the last two years.
That was a lot of change.
Maybe it's time for a notebook and an online book log. A word count that only I can hold myself to. A project that has outlines and shapes and spaces I can fill in, not a wide-open blank page, with all the attendant limitations.
I didn't even come here to write about this. I just want to type. Something, a little anything, at least once a week. If I don't write, I don't keep up with those of you who might still be reading, and I can't very well bemoan the lack of posts on LJ if I'm not writing.
But somewhere along the line I seem to have dropped my writing mojo, such as it ever was. I've owed reviews to T. for ages and ages and a draft is written but it's overwritten and ovewrought and I don't really want to look at it. Movie reviews have been ... they get written, but I constantly feel like I'm using too many words to say too little. And then here - here is one big white page.
The only way out of this hole is to write through it, but where, I wonder? If I read less on the interwebs, will I write more? Have I spun out my LJ time? I don't think so. I don't really like writing on my real-name blog, for whatever reason. But I started to feel self-conscious here and I don't know how to shake it. And there's so much I'd like to write about. Stupid things like BPAL and my newfound nail polish infatuation. Big, wonderful things like how I walk my tiny walk to work and I think about S. and our place and how I love Greenpoint and this new job and him. And loving so many things makes me even more aware of all the things I have always wanted to change. I wind up writing here about the process of wanting to change things, and sometimes I feel like it's always the same words and the same things, but then I look at the last two years.
That was a lot of change.
Maybe it's time for a notebook and an online book log. A word count that only I can hold myself to. A project that has outlines and shapes and spaces I can fill in, not a wide-open blank page, with all the attendant limitations.
I didn't even come here to write about this. I just want to type. Something, a little anything, at least once a week. If I don't write, I don't keep up with those of you who might still be reading, and I can't very well bemoan the lack of posts on LJ if I'm not writing.