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On Probably Never Being a Writer
Free form nothing. I’ll write another day.
When I open my laptop to set it on my knees, perched upon metal bleachers, back pressed against the wall, its metal is cold with the winter of South Dakota seeping through its keys and bones. I’ve left it in my car much of the day, flitting in and out of appointments and meetings and errands and my keyboard feels foreign now, to accustomed fingers, keys worn down in proclivity to use. E, mostly. I, because everything I write is about what I know. Backspace, too. See above.
It is late February, the year that I decided to claim the moniker of writer, but only 60 days in, so I do so haltingly and uncertain. In varying studies I’ve read that it takes 30 days to make a habit (that may have been O Magazine, not a peer reviewed study but nevertheless, sanctioned and blessed by Oprah) or 90 times of repetition and if either is true than I am still unable to put “writer” on any business card or add to my neglected LinkedIn profile because I have maybe written 20 times, in earnest, in these 60 days. Most of my life I’ve wrestled with the quantity vs. quality argument and with the habitual mentions from others of “you do so much,” I suppose I have mostly settled with myself that I will do much but not always particularly well. My “day job” is in marketing — graphic design and web design, particularly or…
