The week before Christmas, somebody stole my bitchin' Camaro cruiser. Or, I should say, that week I discovered that it was gone--in all fairness, the evil thieves could have stolen it weeks ago and I'd just been too busy to notice. Although beloved, it was a rusty old bike that I secured with a cheap chain lock since I couldn't imagine anyone wanting to steal it. So when I came upon its now empty space on the rack, I was surprised--and also, not.
Aside from the loss of a stylish yet not too valuable ride (and the obvious pain of having your stuff taken by greedy, hell-bound strangers), the theft struck me a bit deeper because of the realization that I hadn't actually ridden my bike in months. And that for weeks I'd stopped even looking at it on my way to and from my car, thinking that I should go somewhere with the thing that I once so enjoyed.
Naturally, it made me think about my relationship with something else that I had let lapse: the writing. Ever since I left my full-time reporter gig at Pacific Sun--and probably, if I'm being really honest with myself, since I left Maui Time Weekly and days of Holoholo Girl columning four-and-a-half years ago--my writing has waned.
The desire to write has always been there, as I continue to observe every moment with a writer's eye, contemplating the right descriptive words and narrative angle. But when it comes time to the regular documenting of said moments, I've distracted myself with other things I felt were more important. Like, laundry. And walking the dog. Also, shopping. And watching really bad movies recommended by friends. And online research--lots and lots of research--about men's shoelaces and proper blush application and new restaurants in New Orleans and how to poach an egg and the latest celebrity gossip and who is this Tim Tebow person anyway?
I chalked it up to a lack of self-discipline. I suffered endless dinner parties and cocktail hours with friends and family expressing genuine interest in my writerly pursuits, only to provide them with an embarrassed shrug and downcast eyes, some mumbling about being busy doing research...
I've had consoling writer friends suggest that perhaps this is part of the writing process, that sometimes it takes a period of non-writing (and the living of life!) before you can pump out prolific pages of prose yet again. I even went to a tarot card reader, who advised that instead of waiting I should "make room" everyday for "the muse"--that she isn't going come on her own--and that perhaps the topical matter I've written about previously (I didn't tell her I was a reporter! Ooh, damn!) is no longer serving me now. Thespian proposed that we instigate a new "pre-dinner cocktail writing hour" at home, which worked well a couple of times...until the onslaught of attention his own career demanded (and new TV show) took over most of our together time.
And so. Here I am, after 10 months of unemployed freedom. While other friends have written books, relocated for exciting career developments and had babies, I had a book deal that fell through shortly after the second chapter was completed. I had a handful of freelance writing assignments and copyediting work, and helped Harborside Health Center launch their company newsletter. And while it's been its own kind of sloth-like fun, I wasted a lot of time--mostly, a lot of good writing time.
Writing is the most satisfying, mind-opening, soul-expanding, creative thing I've done with my life. And I don't want to one day wake up and realize that, like my bike, it's gone forever.
Complacency is soooo 2011.
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