My last post reminds me of the joke where the horse walks into a bar and the bartender asks, “Why the long face?”
Sorry if I bummed everybody out. Really, I’m good. In fact, after getting some of that out of my head and into the ether, I’m feeling…hopeful.
I’ve already saved a word doc with three paragraphs that make up the start of an essay I’ve been wanting to write for years.
Finally, I have started again.
I haven’t written an essay in months. And months. I used to turn in 750-words every week to my editor who would feed them through the syndication loop; within days, I’d have emails showing up in my inbox from as far north as Niagara Falls. Before I had my column, I had a blog. I blogged every day for a year and then kept blogging for three more years. I blogged enough to make friends with other writer/bloggers from all over, writer-friends who are now simply friends. Friends who I take flights to visit.
I quit my column, and I deleted that blog. I wanted to write something else.
And so, finally, I’ve started again.
I’m still not looking forward to work tomorrow morning.
I know. I thought so too…that there would be some magical door swing open to all the things I want right in my life as soon as I faced the shit I was so cared to write for so long. I’d wake up and there would be an offer for a fulfilling position that wouldn’t feel like work at all (but still comes with all the benefits, salary, and vacation time as the jobs that do). I’d be thinner and my hair wouldn’t be three different colors starting with the gray roots.
Maybe next week.
What magic door are you waiting to swing open?