This is inspired by a post I read by Isabel Abbott about how we speak about writing. How writing is romanticized, angst-ified, or treated like a thing that can be done only when the right muses are whispering in your ear.
Writing can be those things, but it can also be ordinary. It can just be a thing like any other thing. It can be like it is now for me...sitting at the dining room table, legs crossed, knees soon to be hurting, and listening to the clothes get tossed around in the dryer.
I like this idea of writing the ordinary...of listening to my life and putting what I hear on to a blank page.
The ordinary can be interesting. It can be a place of newness and discovery.
Today has been a pretty ordinary day. It didn't go exactly as I had planned, but it was still a good day. And days don't have to be good to matter. I need to remember that.
Writing is sometimes complicated and fraught for me because I put heavy expectations on myself. Even though I say to myself "this is NOT content" there's a little voice in the back of my head, whispering ''well, this could be content". At that moment, the pressure to make it readable and relatable to other people arrives at the front door of my brain, and pushes its way inside.
I love the idea of writing the ordinary because, in theory, there is no pressure here. Perhaps I will practice writing the ordinary more often. No prompts, just things that are going on, things that have been on my mind.
Sort of like documenting my life. I hate documenting. But I also understand the importance of it.
Maybe documenting the goings-on will help me to remember and appreciate the days more. Maybe I won't feel like life is passing by at warp speed. Maybe I will connect with myself in a way that I haven't before.
And maybe none of those things will happen. That's ok too.
Writing for me is a form of self-care. It's the way I get to speak about my internal world in a way that doesn't require me to use my physical voice. It's a way for me to tap my fingers on a keyboard and pretend I'm playing the piano.
The dryer is still going. I'm surprised and grateful that it's still working after all these years.
The candle smells good. I love candles and I'll always have them in my home. There's a peace that’s brought on by the scent of the candle and the smell of fire. The burn. I love the burn.
These 20 or so minutes I take to practice writing feel like a gift, and at times they feel like an hour of obligation. Either way, I'm grateful to have the time and mental space to do it.
The ordinary is worthy of being written...by me, by anyone. In this age of 24-hour connection with strangers, and the energy of those strangers, and the hype of the news cycle, it feels calming to just capture what is happening around me.
I want to capture the quiet, the distractions, the sounds. The quiet is a fascinating thing to listen to.
Now my back is starting to feel strained and I should probably change positions or get up from this chair, but I don't want to stop writing.
My feet are cold and feel ashy. I forgot to/didn't feel like putting on lotion after my shower. It's the worst part of getting dressed, but as a self-respecting Black person, I cannot step out of the house without it.
The dryer is still going. And besides the sound of my fingers tapping on the keyboard, it's all I hear. The house is quiet. Sometimes I like it like this, other times I feel like I need some noise to fill the empty space.
The quiet is nice right now.
These practice writings are good for me. It whips my writing muscles back in shape. Those muscles have been weakened by the busy-ness of life. I owe it to myself to build them back up. It's my craft.
Yes, it's my craft. And I am devoted to it.
