I’m trying this new thing: just writing. It’s much easier said than done but it’s what everyone says to do. All the other writers, all the experts, and all my favorites. Just get in the habit. Just write whatever comes to mind. Just give five, ten, fifteen minutes to write.
Fifteen minutes, really? It takes me fifteen minutes just to get my browser pulled up… Okay, fine. Realistically, once I’m in the zone, I get out 1000 words in an hour so fifteen minutes is like 250 words, that’s a pretty solid blog post. I mean, I’m not trying to write a book… or am I? Anyway, I guess that’s the point. When writing becomes a habit and I’m doing it all the time, I’ll be able to just sit down and start writing, like breathing. Oh that sounds like a dream.
But here’s the thing, I think too much. I’ve created all of this pressure on myself. I want my writing to mean something. I want the things I say to be important. I don’t like to talk just for the sake of talking, so why would I write just for the sake of writing. I don’t do small talk, I’m not going to small write. Maybe that’s the point I need to realize, if I don’t small talk, why would I expect myself to small write. I think big, so I’ll write big. I’m practically incapable of shallow. (That’s a lie, I can totally be shallow).
But from there, I get all perfectionist-y and academic-y and stupid-y. I’ve gotten sucked into this world of trying to write to impress, instead of telling stories. Telling stories is what I love to do. Telling stories is what makes me come alive. Telling stories is when the words just flow out of my fingertips like magic and fifteen minutes becomes three hours when I’m in that place.
So I’m just writing, but I’m going back to telling stories. I’m not trying to manufacture and generate anymore. I’m just going to be me and I’m just going to write. Now you know, so if you visit here and I’m not just writing, smack me.