Is it the 13th already? Is it one of my cousin's birthdays? His name is Ingemar and I'm fairly certain it's his birthday. Ingemar Wiemer! Imagine! Imagine growing up in Utah with a name like that! I mean, if you had grown up somewhere foreign (foreign to us, but not foreign to you because you hypothetically grew up there), your Ingemar Wiemer name would be Joe Smith or Taylor Swift. Taylor Swift has kind of a funny name as well. An adventurous name, actually. She sounds like a character in a book about a kid who solves mysteries on a sailboat. Some people solve mysteries on yachts, but not Taylor Swift. Taylor needs no bells and whistles, just the high seas and a telescope. And probably a notebook. Yeah, definitely a notebook -- FOR CLUES.
But yeah. Imagine growing up somewhere so foreign that it's not foreign.
This post is off to a great start! I feel so rushed! I have to work soon! But I only feel happy when it rains, like Shirley Manson! That is true. But what I wanted to say is that I feel satisfied when I have written something in the morning, whether it's a blog post or a letter to my best pal Laura or... Well, that's about all I write these days. Except for grocery lists.
Oh what I wouldn't give (I wouldn't give a limb or any of my toes) to be able to write without interruption, without noise or obligations. And without doubt. But even then, if I had the right environment and the time -- oh the elusive time! --, I could handle the doubt. I would punch the doubt in the face or maybe I would be less violent and more hospitable and invite the doubt in for Egyptian licorice tea and gently interrogate it. Then I would show doubt the door with some fresh insights in my head and a newfound confidence. I would lock the door, crack my knuckles, and begin writing.
What a luxury! I can't imagine a life where this is possible. I can imagine it once one is a bestselling, in-demand author. But how do you get to the point of being a bestselling, in-demand author if you have no time to write? Who am I kidding -- I have ample time to write. Like right now. I mean, twenty minutes isn't ample, I suppose, but it is time. And the amount of time I put into other things, things which are ultimately self-destructive, should be time spent writing (which can also be self-destructive, but I'll worry about that later). It should be, but...
Time time time time time. A social construct? A flat circle? Of the essence? An equation? An illusion? Of great or little importance? Just the act of typing out these conundrums confused me. I can't even begin to answer them -- it would take too much time. Instead I will hide the watch I never wear and drown out the ticking of the clock with the clicking of the typewriter keys. That's the key, don't you think? To drown out what's unnecessary and stick with what keeps your soul afloat. I think Taylor Swift in her sailboat would agree.