I have noticed I spend much of my quiet time thinking about writing. I try to come up with metaphors explaining my thoughts, feelings, and dreams. I start pieces I will never complete simply because I am too lazy to flesh the idea into a coherent finish.
I judge my writing harshly. There are only a few things that leave me with a sense of pride and accomplishment. Most of it seems to be a physical embodiment of my random thoughts. My agonizing overthinking leads me to hold back at times.
Grammar and punctuation are my nemesis. Nemeses? Nemesi?
So I started reading more. I am spending more time daydreaming. I practice. Which is actually a funny term for me to use. I went back to my first yoga class in ages. These funny yogis talk about your practice in hushed, irreverent voices. Apparently it is not just learning to look like everyone else in the room. Nope, they are not looking for clones. It is a personal and spiritual journey.
I hate yoga. It hurts. I don’t like the quiet room. I can’t ever seem to relax. I wish there was loud music blaring and we were laughing and telling jokes. I would be enthralled if someone yelling out “Hey! Watch this!” were not a faux pas. Everyone is so damned serious! Lighten up. It should be fun and exhilarating.
Writing is a little like yoga for me. It’s serious. It’s hard. I have no idea what I am actually doing. I want to scream out “whaddya think?” I want people to laugh and to relate to my words. Sometimes I feel like I am just vomiting random ideas into the Internet and they will never mean anything.
Writing is hard work. I have to make time for it. The solitude is often daunting. I find myself craving feedback even while I am scared to know how much you think it sucks. There must be some middle ground.
I love writing. I love thinking of different ways to say things. Words bring me immense happiness. So, I’ll keep practicing. I may even try yoga a few more times. If only because eventually I want to break all the rules.