On New Year’s Eve as Sister #2 was discussing her goals for 2011 she said she wanted to create a writing schedule and stick to it.

“I just want to write again,” I said. She looked at me a little puzzled. “I haven’t written anything since October.”

Confessing felt good. Sure I’ve committed a few sentences to the Internet, but not anything worth noting (aside from what I wrote about Luke). As Truman Capote once so cattily said about Kerouac (a sentiment I agree with heartily because On the Road is drivel), “that’s not writing, that’s typing.”

I’ve done some typing in the waning months of 2010, and even that’s being generous. Things started going downhill with some really silly and immature writing group drama in September and slippery sloped right into October with Mom’s lump and cancer diagnosis, and then the plane crash, and then the chemo, and all the suck literally rained down on me with the Great Drippy Water Incident of 2010.

New Year’s Eve I said I was going to start writing again. I miss writing. I feel hollow without it, like a quieter, paler version of myself. Instead of writing I’ve been drowning my thoughts in reruns of Family Ties and The Wonder Years. A long time ago when I would write about being lonely or sad or afraid, my friends would worry incessantly about me. I always tried to tell them that as long as I was writing they had nothing to worry about, I would be fine. When I stopped writing, nobody even noticed. Funny that, huh?

As part of my getting back into the swing of things plan, I was going to start blogging again. Like old school, reckless, regrettable, in the moment blogging — we’re talking turkey sandwiches and stubbed toes and Dawson’s Creek kind of blogging. You know you missed it and even if you haven’t, I have.

But then I was grating cheese tonight1 and in my absent mindedness mistook my right thumb for a chunk o’ cheddar2. It hurts. With a slap of the space bar I am reminded of my wound. It’s ugly and painful, and it’s how a cheese grater has thwarted my best intentions.

1 I realize while typing through the pain that in relating this cheese grater story I am totally upholding my reckless/regrettable blogging resolution. See how that works?

2 I ate that grated cheese even though there were probably flakes of my own flesh mixed in there and it was delicious.

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2 Comments

  1. Doug 03.Jan.11 at 12:48 am

    I undoubtedly do more typing than writing these days, but even that offers some modicum of staving off the feeling associated with not writing at all. I’ve been able to keep up a routine thanks to having a 45-minute commute on public transportation, and without that I’m sure I would have fallen off the wagon.

    But I take some solace in knowing that the wagon is always there, and it’s just a matter of getting back if I find myself on the proverbial side of the road.

    p.s. You had to eat the cheese; otherwise the grater wins.

    Reply
    1. Jodi 03.Jan.11 at 11:26 am

      @Doug,
      I’m so glad that fucking cheese grater lost.

      Reply

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