Ten years ago I wrote every day. I had a public blog, a private diary, and a work journal. I wrote about my house, my lack of a love life, my career, and my family. Sometimes, like the monkeys with typewriters, I churned out something interesting; but usually I wrote crap no one could ever care about. It seemed like it would never end. The words were always there, writhing beneath my skin, begging me to pound the keyboard and let it all out.
Today I seldom write. I do have short bursts of intense writing, like the one I’m doubtlessly experiencing now (Or like the one that persuaded me to buy yet another domain name and start this blog, for crying out loud!) but today it isn’t uncommon for me to go weeks without writing.
I thought maybe I wrote less because I’m older. I thought I was less willing to risk myself emotionally. Maybe I’m smarter, and I’ve (finally!) learned from the occasions where I’ve written myself into trouble.
Those are the lies I’ve been telling myself.
Today, though, I realized for me writing is an expression of hope. I write about the person I want to become, the plans I have for the future, and about things in my life that are exciting and interesting.
I’m not hopeful any longer.*
My career seems to have flatlined. My only social contacts are my family, who live three hours away. Love is sawdust. I have no energy. I’m in debt. And I’m still fat.
I’m ashamed of the sad little life I’m living, and I don’t find much joy in anything I do.
No wonder I don’t write.
But what if I could change my life by writing again? If I put myself under a microscope again will I re-learn how to be interesting?
Habitfork is about the choices I make and the habits I establish. Investing in my happiness by changing my (non) writing habit seems like something I have to do. After all, if I won’t blog, why own a domain?
* Except I am going on vacation soon, which makes me happy. Then again, escaping my daily life is about avoidance, not about hope. So no, vacation-generated excitement doesn’t count.