There’s not much opportunity for quiet writing time around here. It seems there’s always something going on–someone banging on the walls, some strange story about my roommate’s penis, attack of the cat. Sometimes I just can’t hear myself think. Maybe I’ve been looking for excuses not to write. I wouldn’t deny that. Either way, I have been putting quite a bit of thought into making more time for writing lately. That’ll be one good thing about my new schedule–stablity and a real time to set aside for writing. Yay for me for wanting to get back into it.
I’m not sure what the next project is, or if there is one. I have some tinkering to do with a few stories and a thought or two brewing about some nonfiction ideas. So this weekend I rearranged my room (which wasn’t very difficult, considering there’s only three real pieces of furniture down there) and stuck the desk into a corner, hoping I might be able to sit there 20 minutes a day and work. I talked to a friend this weekend about my thesis and got a little fired up about the notion of getting back into it. It’s exciting. But frightening, too. Now that I’m leaving the Writing Center (for all but one day a week), I don’t have much else to turn to.
I just finished watching Man on the Moon and am again struck by how much our craft can define us or rather, how we define ourselves by our craft. We know of artists, writers, and so on. And, when engaged in our craft, we refer to ourselves as such. But how often do we refer to ourselves as cashiers, office assistants, or prep cooks? It doesn’t happen. Not outside our jobs. Maybe the movie’s put me in this pensive mood. Maybe I’ve been thinking too much about who I am and what I do. Maybe I should just do something.