I read a piece by Ann Lamott yesterday telling me something I already knew. If I’d just commit to writing for 30 minutes a day, in a year I’d have something. Of course, “something” is going to depend on the person who has to read it, but at least it would be something to work with.
I rarely write anything any more. I write about food, and to be honest, I’ve begun to take more time with that, but I believe it’s because it’s the only writing I do. It’s writing, so it has to count for something. I mull over it in the same way I would any kind of writing I do, because mulling over it is what I do best. It’s ridiculous on most days, but it is what it is.
To some extent, photographs have taken the place of my writing. They seem to capture my thoughts and express what I would say, or write, if given time. Sure, I have time, but I’m not very good at using it if it’s at the end of a day instead of the beginning.
I love how mornings begin slowly. The light creeps into the day and the air is fresh, begging me to step out to walk and stretch my bones and mind; encouraging me to exercise my thinking — priming my ideas and memories.
Writing at night is not something I enjoy. It often mirrors my energy, or the lack thereof. I sit in front of my Mac and a different kind of quiet than I’m familiar with, the shush of the dishwasher pulsing in the room, and not much else. It doesn’t exactly add up to anything I can be thoughtful about.
But that’s another excuse, isn’t it.
But I’ve written, haven’t I?
Not quite 30 minutes. In fact, not a respectable 10.