The new year just kicked off yesterday.
Come on. Lie to me.
From as far back as I can remember (well, not really, but it sounds better than “Since the age of 12ish”), my dad has told me to enjoy the present time because as soon as you reach adulthood, it starts flying by, and picking up speed with every year. How right he was.
It’s funny how writing about time only seems to come out in clichés. I know clichés are clichés because they are rooted in truth, but it’s nearly impossible to talk about time without having the impression of saying things that have been said since time immemorial. (See what I mean about clichés?)
It’s been a busy beginning to the year. Busy with inconsequential things like work and household chores. With fun things like friends, and books, and cooking. With inspiring and scary things like the prospect of moving to make future projects possible, but also to find a space more fitting to who I am becoming.
It’s also been a bit of a disappointing new year with almost no writing done, except the kind I have to do to make a living. And that brings me back to time, or the lack thereof. Weeks just zooming by (look at that: it’s Thursday again) and exhaustion setting in before my brain can even muster anything creative. Just this, what I’m doing right now, attempting to update a blog I haven’t touched since last summer (holy crap): five minutes in and I already feel tapped out.
And so my time has also been partially filled with bookmarking writing contests I never enter, reading submission rules for stories I haven’t imagined. I want to go back to writing, yet I’m using the cliché of time to explain (justify) why I’m not.
Time to get the dinner cooking.