I don’t feel much like writing about my weekend, not about the gorgeous-yet-condescending Apple store guy named Marlon, nor about the fun Narnia party I went to, nor about the pea soup I made on Sunday that is really bothering me because I can’t tell what I did wrong to it to make it taste so bland. I don’t want to write about the movies I watched or the fact that I am sleeping under so many blankets that I have a really hard time in the mornings just physically throwing them off me so I can get out of bed.
I don’t want to write about the Newly Reconfigured Top Secret Plans, even though I have been talking and thinking of little else recently, just the past couple of weeks. Trips to the bank and the post office have been made, a trip to the travel agent will be made soon, and there are calendars to consult and budgets to be drawn up and all sorts of arrangements to be finalized, for several months there will be, if all goes well, and I don’t want to write a word about any of it.
I don’t want to write about politics, even though there’s plenty to think and obsess and worry about, plenty of ways to advocate for change, plenty of reasons to tear out your hair. I read the news and I make the calls and write the emails and I get scared, a lot of the time. I get really scared but I don’t want to write about being really scared.
I don’t want to write about the holidays, because I kind of don’t care about the holidays. I am going back to Miami for Christmas and I like giving gifts and I am excited for a cookie-swap party I’m going to in a couple of weeks because a cookie-themed party might be the best idea ever. I have been thinking a lot about family and community lately, where I fit into mine, if I even fit into mine, but I don’t want to write about it.
I don’t want to write about writing, how I keep saying I want to do it more and better. I don’t want to write about the classes I consider taking, about the writing group I consider starting, the books I consider reading, about the advice or encouragement or warning I’ve received. I know the only way to do it is to do it and I cannot do it. Sometimes I think it is because I don’t want it enough, and sometimes I think that’s just fine. I think about how much I like writing this journal, even when I can’t think of anything to say that isn’t totally self-centered or jejeune or overdone or ill-conceived or whatever. I think that maybe it’s fine that I just keep doing it, for another year, another couple of years. Other times I wonder why I can’t seem to get it all out of me and onto a page, and then I think that there is nothing worse to read than writing about writing, and I think there are so many awful books in the world that I shouldn’t think that mine would be any better, even though sometimes I think maybe mine would be a little better, even though I know that’s a pretty dangerous conceit. I don’t want to write about wishing a book deal would just drop in my lap, about not wanting to do the real work, about wanting everything to be easy and intuitive. I don’t want to write about laziness and ineptitude and wasted potential.
The time ticks by and I go on with my life, thinking but not writing. I don’t want to write anything about anything, but I go crazy if I don’t write something about nothing.