I’ve learned that where I write has just as much to do with whether I write than anything else. Where as in sitting in front of my Mac instead of outside on my tree shaded patio complete with morning cup of coffee, a pen with the just right feel, and my turquoise Moleskin (which is full of thinking about my novel and various explanations of why I’m not writing it). But that isn’t the kind of writing I’m talking about. It’s more what I’m doing right now. The sitting in front of my Mac kind of writing.
I stare at the “Add New Post” screen on the dashboard here at kellementology and have grown accustomed to what it looks like over the past six years. There isn’t anything remarkable about it and so I expect to not be distracted by the columns on the sides of my white writing space or the drop down menus allowing access into the bowels of the site, because they’ve always been there. They contain helpful information I use for something other than writing when necessary, but they don’t distract me from my task. Writing.
What does distract me is the way kellementology looks once I’ve finished writing and am satisfied as I’ll ever be with a piece generated as I think, sometimes with no more than the thought that I should write today. And so I do. But once I push the blue “Publish” button, whatever thoughts I’ve mulled over and written down for that day are out there for anyone to see. Anyone who happens along, of course. The odds are fairly slim that anyone might, but that isn’t why I write. Still, it’s always nice to know someone has read, and even more, that what I’ve written has given them something to think about.
I write because sometimes I have to. As much as I enjoy talking with others, I wouldn’t necessarily talk with anyone about what I write here. Perhaps it’s too boring, or simply pertains to me and what tiny thing matters from one day to the next. Like writing or not writing. And if I did talk to anyone about it, I’m sure they would think, so shut up and write already, will you?
If this makes any sense, I’ll compare writing here to choosing a book to read. As much as we all know someone somewhere told us we cannot judge a book by its cover, I will say I always do. Real books, of course, and not the metaphorical notion of something with a “cover” or skin, like you and I. I know I shouldn’t but I do. I pick the book up, notice its heft, examine its back and flaps. Read any blurb by a recognized author on the cover who has conveniently reviewed it, scan the pages for point of view, and yes, even consider the font it’s printed with. But now I’ve cheated, haven’t I? I’m in the book, and no longer judging by cover alone. I’m left thinking, would I have decided to pick up the book had the cover not captured my attention? I wonder.
So that brings me back to kellementology. The place I’m writing exactly now never changes — and that’s a very good thing for someone like me who just wants to sit down and pound the keyboard with whatever thought that manages to make it to the surface of my brain. But I also become accustomed to the exterior — the one you are looking at right now as you read, all the while scratching your head and wondering what in the world is this woman trying to explain?
Lately, most likely in an attempt to distract me from my obsessive vacation planning, and even more, to procrastinate continuing with the novel I began last November, I have been working on both of my blogs. When I take that never ending task on, it involves some redecorating so that I like the way the “cover” looks (the header, the font, the sidebars — or what’s generally known as the theme, or “wrapper”). Perhaps I am trying to convey that, yes! You really can judge a book by its cover — in the best way possible. I’m far too particular to allow my blogs to resemble that favorite dive take out establishment that we want to keep a secret because it has the most delectable carnitas anyone has ever had. Worse? I would need to find a hole to bury my head in if either was flashy and so well put together yet what I’ve taken the time to write was horrible. Like today.
It’s tortuous to want to write, to enjoy the feel of fingers pecking away on a keyboard. To see thoughts appear in a white space among others to complete a thought or bigger idea. To have an urge and mimic what is needed to satisfy it.
That’s what I’ve done today. My Moleskin and this space have both fallen victim to writing for the sake of writing. Words written in two ways with no purpose other than to fill space.
Now that I’ve taken time to acknowledge that, I should probably work on my cover. If I don’t then I may not be able to capture some unsuspecting soul’s attention.