I’m beginning a new ritual: a half hour of writing to garnish my morning coffee.
It’s been a long while since I’ve managed a steady output. My journal’s typical ramblings have been superseded by to-do lists and other scribblings for work and personal projects. It’s become more of an extension of memory and analysis than a place of reflection. I don’t think I’ve done any essay writing since graduating from college. Essays, here, refer to essays I wrote for my own personal edification, and not in my capacity as a supposed student of whatever I was supposedly studying. Even the gush of love letters, which I used Â to write to my wife when we were separated by half a world, has trickled to a meager quantity, sufficient to fill just one or two Hallmark cards worth of card stock a year. This isn’t surprising, since physical proximity reduces the need for emotional proxy. But it still feels like a loss, in a way.
More generally, the lack of any writing feels like a loss, at least when I turn back and try and reflect on things past. Writing preserves a personal perspective that would otherwise vanish in the face of present day concerns and future worries. Some things persist in your head, but much of it just disappears and escapes any recollection. So I’m going to try writing again.
I’ve decided to try my hand at public writing. Or my conception of what public writing is. It’s less personal than journal writing, and it’s written for an audience and not myself. The topics are varied. It’s more essay than anything, though I’m limiting myself to half-an-hour and one blog post per session. And whatever I’ve got at the end I publish. So tomorrow you better spend more time proofreading.