Sometimes, I can be a very private person. Sometimes when I’m feeling a strong emotion, be it positive or negative, I find myself not wanting to share about it until after the moment has passed.
But then other times, I blab to the high heavens about anything and everything that crosses my mind.
It’s a bit silly, these differences.
I don’t like any of that at all. Why am I writing about it? I haven’t even managed to make it interesting. I lost interest halfway through writing it.
Blah. But up it goes. Blogged, rather than deleted and unpublished. I practiced writing and even though I got bored almost immediately, I still practiced. Or started to, anyways.
I should look up some writing exercises, maybe. The prose version of “Peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers” or perhaps running through scales, the circle of fifths. What is the equivalent for writing? Not necessarily being creative, but being practiced, poised, prepared so that the creating is easier when it comes? Maybe it’s this. But that’s not especially what this feels like.
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I googled it and google had a lot of answers. Before I get into implementing any of those ideas, I would just like to pause and commemorate this intense feeling of imposter syndrome. I am writing down words, but I am not a writer. Surely writers know these things already.
And am I going to actually put any of those exercises or ideas to use? The answer is “probably not.” But I will browse and consider and hem and haw and make excuses, probably.
But maybe I’ll start with just one, if I can find one I like. See how it goes.
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We got our dog today. She’s already dear and darling, greeting everyone in the neighbourhood with her eager little nose and a delighted little hop. I am smitten.