I’ve been writing.

A lot.

I have yet to put everything into one solid document but fair estimates tell me I’m edging on something that’s at least 50,000 words.  That’s a lot of words.  It’s staggering actually. They’re my words and I’m intimidated by them just on the basis of length.

I don’t know if this is typical for people.  No.  I’d have to assume it’s not. In the course of regular life it’s definitely not typical for me.  Or maybe it is.  But my own writing is so much more reflective, so much more contemplative.  I write to understand what’s going on around me and not necessarily to provide answers or solutions.  So, this academic venture, a full six-months of nothing but analysis and picking, has been nothing short of exhausting.  I now fully understand its purpose; I know how people can devote their lives to this kind of writing.  What I don’t understand, nor am I convinced of, is why.  I have found it nothing short of personally destructive–as a process and not an end.  I suppose that’s the conundrum for me; I have found something interesting to talk about. To advocate for. To immerse myself within.  But I have found the solitude a counterpoint–an uncomfortable one.  The process seems not worth it.

And for what?  A job?  Recognition? Some letters behind a name?  I’ve come so far.  Those are great things but what I’ve learned from this is so much more important: persistence. discipline. finding the depths. learning to hear them.  Creatively, I’ve always been there.  And maybe that’s the biggest win of all.  Proof to myself? No.  Proof to others? Yes.  Did I need to prove anything…I guess only to me.

Blogs can be *so* self-serving.  “Let me use free internet space to get something off my chest.”  I’m no different there, in some ways.  But this can be the reflective and creative place I need…to store my thoughts for another day.  And to write for reflection’s sake, without pretending I know answers or even how to solve them.  Or to feign happiness or talk about gratitude (because haven’t we heard enough about gratitude for awhile?  That just doesn’t even seem real to me).  I have privileges but I am not privileged.  I work exhaustingly hard to pay my bills and have friends and keep my sanity. And I don’t intend, ever, to contribute to the illusion that everyone should shit sunshine about the latest tea-caddies and do-it-yourself solutions to wall coverings.  If you do that, you’re only part of the problem.

But there I am getting all analytical again.

Maybe that’s normal now.  And maybe I’ll try to find a little heart in all of it.

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