I once wrote a piece for no one's eyes but my own--this was pre-blog era, so there really was nowhere to post this thing--called "The Editor". I didn't know why I wrote the piece at the time; looking back I think I was feeling frustrated as a writer who wasn't able to run with the bulls and then jot down the experience over shots of whiskey; my most fruitful writing experiences didn't align with times when I was most physically able to write.
This year has reeked of that same alienation. A lot has happened this year--a lot that I could make more sense of if I just had the opportunity to mull them over on Pause. But I've had to settle for scraps of time, and knowing that I was writing in shortcuts, not fully fleshing out much of anything. Getting notes of support back from the community has been on the one hand incredibly gratifying, and on the other incredibly sad. I know that if we spoke on the phone, they would sound a lot like my mother, who supports my adventures and wishes I was blogging again at the same time.