I'm a bit out of practice. My own fault. I could blame circumstances--travelling out of a backpack for months on end, moving to a new country, job hunting. But all of that has allowed for a lot of down time. A lot. So it's definitely not circumstance.
If anything, the circumstances were ideal. Inspiration should have flourished. I was on my own time, immersed in new cultures, meeting new people, having the time of my life. This is where I come in. Guilty as charged, I did not seize the moment.
I did not channel the wondrous world around me into thoughtful observations or witty recollections. Quite the opposite. I didn't write at all. Barely. A piece here and there. My journal of course-fat and full-but none of that is for public consumption. Not yet anyway.
And I call myself a writer!
Had the audacity even, to claim a career in journalism when the inevitable job conversation arose in a new crowd. I was honest. Quick to clarify that journalism was the goal. I offered rose tinted glasses. Said I was writing while travelling, building a portfolio, pitching. For the sake of preserving my dignity, the latter is not a lie. I did, on maybe three separate occasions, undergo sporadic spins of motivation and, for a few days, fired off pitches and drafted articles about the Irawaddy dolphin or the perfect tropical cocktail. The record shows I managed to make a blog or two out of those frenzied moments. Based on my article ideas, you'd think I didn't have a niche. On the flip side, my blog suggests a salty niche.
The ocean as my muse!
A cliche I am not ashamed to admit to. The ocean is vast and everchanging. We mere mortals can't fathom the depths. We've explored more of the milky way than the seven seas. It would be strange if I didn't find something to comment on amongst the waves.
Still. Maybe I've written so much of it recently because it's become safe. Held me up to the surface, and all of that. And, really, it's clearly not been the most sparking of all muses. Prolific I have not been.
I'd like to be though. I was reminded the other day of my own, bold claim that I had material ready, I simply needed to get it out on paper. So, here we are. Making another bold claim. That, this time, I'm sticking to it.
I'm shrugging off the shackles of expectation and embarassment. Leaning all the way in. To writing, and writing regularly. It won't always be refined, carefully crafted evaluations of the human experience. Hell, it possibly won't ever be that. But you have to start somewhere and this is it. If Carrie Bradshaw can find a column in french fries then I can find a blog in this life. I'm pulling my finger out. Let the good times roll.
Thanks to Louis and Serena for reminding me that I have to write to call myself a writer. To Matilda for being so iconically unabashed about her own writing. To myself from not shying away anymore.
After multiple false starts.
A blog a week.
Why not. Let's do it.
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