There’s a way that we should write. It starts with an outline. With an outline, it’s easy to decide on the point of the thing you’re writing. I recently had a birthday (36). It’s not a particular round and important number for a birthday. I made myself a little promise, one of those head-on-pillow, sleepy-yet-ambitious promises, to write more. This is silly, I tell myself. I write constantly. I write all day every day.
I write for a living. Most of it is what you would call “copy”. Strictly work. I take on the voices and brand guides quite well. I even create them for my clients — whole personalities, speaking and pouring out of my fingertips.
When I, tired from working, mothering, and living, promise myself to write more, that means I want to snatch more little moments to write for myself. I’m often just too tired to write — mostly because I make it more of a thing than it really needs to be. Because I know the right way to write.
But, right now, it’s a Sunday night. My husband is away at drill and my son, Victor, is pounding his feet across the floor above me while he plays. I gave him dinner in front of the television. I never do this. It isn’t done. Intentional millennial mothers paying for private school, limiting sugar, and practicing sight words between weekly library trips, do not let their precious treasures waste a Sunday afternoon streaming Youtube.
But, since I’m doing it, I’m sitting in bed. I think it’s been years since I’ve typed in bed. The last time I can remember typing in bed was before Victor was born. I may have done some computer work when Victor was an infant, propped to nurse on my lap or sleeping beside me. But, I don’t think I’ve written my thoughts since before he was born. (At least, it feels that way).
I recall sitting in our basement apartment, one of my favorite places that we’ve lived despite its tendency to flood. (I’m a sucker for aesthetics over everything). I had my setup around me. It’s something like piles of books, journals, lists, and pens. I pile ideas around me as if I plan to hibernate with my thoughts.
It seems like I was always busy then. Now, I think back and it feels like I had all the time in the world.
I wonder if the tone of this thing seems bitter. It’s not. It’s not even mournful or nostalgic. It’s a simple reflection on the changes of time.
Gray hairs sprout and they don’t bother me. I used to worry about having smooth skin — it was young and bright but marked with cystic acne. Now, the acne is gone but, wrinkles are starting to hoe fine lines in their place.
In particular, I have one between my brows. I think about it a lot. Because I think it could be a sexy trench from my thinking face. If I were a man, some gal would write a whole poem about that crease in my brow. And she would fall in love with me for it.
Instead, I’m a woman who says she is too tired to write because her creative job keeps her running hard. Thriving and wrinkling all over the place.
Maybe I’ll do one of these a week. Maybe I won’t.
I’m a Lynchburg photographer, writer, and marketing professional with a boutique marketing agency, greeting card line, and a wrinkle in the middle of my eyebrows.