I’ve missed you.
I’ve missed writing.
I didn’t think I had anything to write about. I did.
I was wondering if people even read anymore. I wasn’t reading anymore.
I took all my opinions over to Instagram. I like videos, but they aren’t the same as writing. They don’t feel as therapeutic as taking my thoughts rearranging them into a narrative and spitting it back out to be reflected on a page (or a screen).
I didn’t write complete sentences anymore. That made me really sad. I just spoke in heart and hug emojis. That whole, “If you don’t use it, you lose it,” thing that they always talk about is actually true. Go figure.
I tried an email list. I tried to monetize my thoughts. It felt like charging money to see the Grand Canyon or Niagra Falls. (Wait, do they charge money for that?) Let me be clear: I don’t think my writing is that good to be compared to a natural phenomenon that is millennia in the making. I felt like writing was my therapy, and to try to use it to sell something (even if that’s just myself) felt wrong. Yeah, that was a bad metaphor. Maybe I’m more like that Banksy art work that exploded when someone bought it at an auction. (Wow, you really just compared yourself to Banksy? It HAS been a long time.) I’ll get better metaphors I promise.
So, you see? I need this. Maybe I will write about yoga…or massage. Mostly, it will be true stories. I like those. Obviously, they will be creatively edited to protect the innocent and to make me sound more interesting than I actually am. Hopefully, I will learn new words, and get back the ability to write full sentences and to speak without emojis like in olden times. Maybe there’s not an audience for us “olds” who use words and descriptors other than “super” and “amazing.” That’s okay. Because I’m finding all this time that my audience was me, and my audience is ready to return to form.