I seem to only want to write to publish these days. I can’t really help myself. It feels urgent, like I’m saving people’s lives or something and if I don’t hit publish I’m losing some.
I know that sounds delusional or “megalo” or whatever. But it’s my truth in this moment. Humble lies and obsequious falsehoods be damned.
It might actually be true. Other writers have “saved my life,” in moments, here and there.
I put the phrase “saved my life” in quotations because it wasn’t always literal(ly), and of course it wasn’t just one writer at one moment.
A wise man once said (apparently quoting someone unmentioned; and yes, years ago, I did obsessively rabbit-hole online to find the source, but with no result; let me know if you find it. Or don’t, and just get on with your life) that we need to see/hear things seven times before we absorb them. So maybe this is the first time. Or the third time, or the fifth time. Or maybe it’s the seventh time. The point is, it’s a scenius, not a genius up in here (Brian Eno, quoted by Austin Kleon, paraphrased by me). And every bit of the scenius counts.
Now that I finally “get” it (probably because I heard it seven [or eight, or whatever number of] times), I feel the urgent urge to keep hitting “publish.”
Well, at least, one could argue that some urges are better carried out than others. Maybe.
My only blockers are weird things like, which of the thousand things, bubbling to the surface on a given moment, to start typing about and hit publish on.
And the fear of leaving dangling prepositions. And of starting with conjunctions. And the fear of hurting someone, including but not limited to myself. And the fear of not being compassionate enough. And the fear of not getting it right. And forgetting to give credit to the “real-life” people (and animals, and plants, and minerals, bits of stardust, water droplets etc.) who’ve “saved my life.”
Oh yes and grocery shopping. And yard work. And housework. And office work. And home renovations work. And doing homework with the kids. And reading with the kids. And talking about screen addiction with the kids. And going for walks around the local ponds with the kids. And chatting with husband and kids about the theory of calculus over lunch.
Not even kidding. Doesn’t that make us sound smart? Great things happen sometimes. The rest of the time we’re talking about elbows-off-the-table, and not-asking-about-catheters-while-we’re-eating, and please, please kids, don’t call the chocolate firecrackers our neighbours gave us (no joke, this is a thing in France) farters. (My fault. I told them the word pétards has a double meaning. Why god why. Worst thing is, in that moment, I got the double meaning wrong. Oh well, better “farters” than spliffs, I guess.
Side note: Apparently, for some twisted reason, I can’t stand hearing the word f-a-r-t come out of any immediate family member’s mouth except my own.
I’ll leave you with that deep thought for now. In the meantime, I’m up at 04:38 in the morning for some damned reason, after having lain awake for an hour with swarming thoughts. And I’ve blocked myself from all social media including WordPress alleyways. So, on to write the next thing. Or maybe try to sleep a bit. It is Sunday morning, after all.