Writing Down the Bones

Like many people, I get both nostalgic and hopeful at the new year. I begin to think about travesties overcome, battles either won or lost, things I can improve upon, blessings I am grateful for.

In terms of this blog, and writing in general, I start to think–what the fuck have I been doing with my time?!

It would be easy to say, “I vow to write at least one blog post a week for the rest of 2008″ and then it will be eight times as easy to not do it, and I am not into setting myself up for disappointment. However, what I can do is make an effort to at least consider writing in this blog. I can at least take the time to think about what I would write if I weren’t too tired to write. And then, with an idea in hand, I’ll perhaps have the motivation to pound something out when a spare 20 minutes avails itself to me.

Last night I sat down with my laptop and composed another memory-story, this time without a religious theme, but something I wanted to remember. I forgot to post it last night (I fell asleep early after a long first day back at the office) but I will post it tonight. So, here’s to more frequent updates.

Because, the truth is, what good is a writer who doesn’t write? Oh, sure, I could take the easy way out and say I’m more a graphic artist these days than I am a writer, but that would be the worst kind of lie, because I’d be lying to myself. I will never be anything more than I am a writer, and that’s probably how it should be. Graphic art only came into my life a few years ago. I’ve been writing since I was a little girl. In fact, when I was about 10 years old, I dragged my ancient, enormous, heavy-as-hell typewriter with me to my grandmother’s house in Ohio for summer vacation and I spent the summer in her basement writing a novel. It was terrible, to be sure, but it was coplete. My 10 year old self spent summer vacation writing a novel. And I would dare to call myself a graphic artist instead?

Pish posh. I can’t even draw.  There’s the rub.

I have also decided that I need to write a novel this year. I say “need” because I’m not sure it’s something I want to do so much as something that I feel compelled to do. I haven’t written any good fiction in ages. I’ve gotten out of the habit, and I’ve quite forgotten how. But it was how I began my life as a writer, and it is how I think I may continue my life as a writer, so I’d best get started. The only way to grow a muscle is to use it, and there’s no time like the present. So, whether I want to or not, there it is. And I’m sure that once I get going I’ll want to.

And that’s really all I have to say about that. Wishing everyone a splendid new year.

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