It has become consistent. A habit. A slice of life that I cannot deny.
I used to think I found it in what I wrote. Now I find it in the act.
One part of me feels satisfaction in the process itself, almost as if the final project doesn’t even matter anymore. I know that’s a lie, because I want to share what I’m creating. The consistency of everyday writing is the one constant in my life made unstable by current events.
I once told a friend that writing saved my life. The moment those words seeped through my teeth I felt like a tired cliche hung out to dry. I felt like a poser. Was it too personal? Is this too personal? Do I even care? Do you even care? As I talked with him I was amazed to discover the flow of words that came from me. I don’t normally talk about these things because it is personal. I like to attempt to maintain a certain professionalism to my work. I’m always nervous about the writer being mixed up for the writing, as though who the writer is impacts the creative work. Yet I hear stories that people want to know the creator is a real being.
I can see that.
The other day my wife told me to get over my social media phobia. I admit that I am not good at this thing. It seems that for some people with social anxiety disorder, communicating on the internet and over social media is easier for them than in face to face contact. It is the opposite for me. I don’t separate them. If I’m feeling social anxiety it translates across platforms. It’s just that it’s much easier to ignore the internet of media, even easier to do when I don’t have reliable internet access.
So I write. I read. I edit. I do just about anything except communicate with people.
I find a nice rock to hide under while I create and recharge.
That’s that. I create everyday writing.
Because I like to.
Because I want to.
Because I must.
Where is your solace?