Three. This is the number of times I sat down this week to blog but ended up elsewhere. It’s not that I have nothing to say; let’s be real, I have something to say always, but maybe it’s this context. Certain things are not meant for the eyes and ears of the world, or those who Google, or maybe just those who are creeps.
One thing is certain, though, I miss writing and reading. Grad school wiped away the pleasure factor of these activities, but, thankfully, it didn’t touch literature or poetry. Case in point: I walked to the post office the other day to purchase stamps, and as the attendant flipped through my options, I eyed the Twentieth Century Poets and about peed. I selected that page immediately, and she asked me, “Oh, are you a writer?” Immediately, I wished my answer was, “YES!” but stuck to the standard, “Well, no, but I studied English in college…”
[For the record, in my head, I hear Another One Bites the Dust. Thank you, Queen.]
But I’m not a writer. I’m a social worker. Interacting with people, being a part of social movements, and partnering with others more passionate than myself invigorates and fulfills me in ways I never thought a vocation could; however, a tiny part of me longs to hide away, wearing my grandpa sweater in a nook with a legal pad and a bottle of whiskey. The whiskey is for iconic effect more than consumption. Let’s be real; I’m not competent, let alone literate and articulate, while shooting liquor or guns.
And as quickly as the glamor of the writing life encompasses me, swooning my heart, I glance toward the oven and snap into reality. Rest in peace, Slyvia Plath, rest in peace.
For now I’ll stick with people, and maybe if I stick with them long enough, I’ll come across stories worth telling, compiling tangible material to make into something write-worthy. I’d like that, I think.