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Taking Stock

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Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay

This is where I am right now: writing in my bedroom, on a tiny desk, my laptop on a box of old notebooks so it's at eye-level. The kids are back in school, so for a few hours, at least, no one will come through the door asking for food or help in finding lost items (books, toys, marbles). I could hypothetically not worry about anything else besides writing, but of course, I do. I plan when I can go to the store, what am I going to make for dinner, and how will I juggle a zoom call with the kids coming back from their first day in school after a long break. And, of course, the dog might come through the door. At least he's not asking for anything.


I should edit my manuscript; I've been working through some fantastic feedback I got from the amazing people at my writers' group who were kind enough to give me their time and thoughts. I should research my new project and learn more about the things I need to know to do that story justice. I should read more craft books, improve my writing. (It's about time, don't you think?)


I should go back to physical activity. I miss my walks incredibly. I should make a habit out of meditating, go back to doing yoga every morning. I should eat more veggies. I should write a coherent blog post, something clever, philosophical, insightful.


I'm able to do none of these. I don't know why. Perhaps because I had no carbs for breakfast or because I had too much carbs in the last two months. Perhaps because I have been reading the wrong books, I haven't been reading the right books. Perhaps because I haven't been out for a run since before Christmas. I don't know why I sit here and write about all the things I should be doing and can't. Perhaps because, deep down, I'm masochistic.


There's a song in Hebrew by one of the greatest, saddest artists in Israel (kind of an Israeli Leonard Cohen, if you will). The lyrics are something like this: "I have love, a sea of love, I even have some money/ So where does it come from? Where does it come from? Where does the sadness come from?/ You love this melancholic pose, you say/ You look for it and you find it, you're addicted, you can't any other way."


Maybe I am addicted to this sadness; it's entirely possible. I don't know any other way to be in the world. I don't know where it comes from and believe me, I've looked. But hey, today I can hear myself think, and my tiny desk has a little drawer where I can put my notebook and pen (and other writing essentials such as hand warmers and cream). I have a working laptop and even a separate keyboard to write when the words come (which I hope would be any minute now). And we are celebrating today the fact that women are no longer the property of men, so that's good.

 

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