Member-only story
Through-line
Grappling with life through the lens of a college-visit tour
When I don’t write, days slide by all a-jumble. At first, it’s somewhat manageable. I can track and remember what’s going on, what’s “up,” if you will. What I’m noticing, what moves me. In my head, I keep an informal list of rough ideas to write about.
Then, work subsumes me. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
The truth is that if I were more disciplined, more confident, ambitious — more ferocious, determined, dedicated — I would write every day. Nothing would stop me.
I do write most days in my journal. But, my effort there is so lazy and so pidgin that I don’t count it as writing. My handwriting is cramped and spidery. I can barely hold a pen. After two pages, my shoulder aches.
No one ever told me that the reason to do your best work in your twenties and thirties and maybe early forties is because physical pain begins to curtail effort.
It’s difficult to work all day at a desk, commute up to three hours round-trip a day, and then sit down again at home to write. I can’t bear it. My body cries out for relief, and I go walking or get on the floor to stretch. Or collapse on my bed. On good days, I go dancing.
