I have been in the early throes of what feels like a sort of crisis here at The Floating Egg lately, and it is finally spilling out of the closed-up capsule that is my soul into something resembling the public view. At the core of this crisis is the indisputable fact that I have not been writing. Period. Never mind for a moment that I have not been posting anything much, here or anywhere else I purport to blog. The step before that step is the one I am really and truly concerned with; I can’t post if I don’t even write. And I really am not even writing.
I think about writing a great deal. No points for that, though, I am afraid. I stare at my stale blogs, with things I put together this winter still up on the front page, simply because nothing else has come along to push them off. I think, boy, I really need to freshen this up. And of course it is far easier to start shopping for new themes, fiddling with color palettes and mood boards and typographical nuances than it is to sit down, take a blank page, and just write. Yet that last is, full stop, the Thing I Need To Do.
So screw re-branding. The old cliché about rearranging the deck chairs on that big old boat comes straight to my mind: my writing (and subsequent posting) of original true prose has nothing to do with how many columns or sidebars or widgets I have. Nothing. My writing has to do with my writing, my actually committing the act of writing. I need to do that, if I want to continue to have any claim to the label of “writer” anymore. Maybe somewhere down the road it will truly make sense to update the aesthetic of my window on the world. But not today. Today I need to write.
I’ve thought about writing my whole life, and I give myself points (but then, I’m an easy grader). I’ve only started writing recently, and then, I’ve stopped again. I can’t figure out why sometimes these things rattle in my brain and put themselves together and beg to come out, but then, there’s nothing.… nothing but a bunch of disassociated thoughts…