I wrote today for 5 hours. 6:30am to 11:30am. An odd experience, writing these days. On the one hand, it’s more like chiseling. For me, a ghostwriter by training and writer-by-happenstance due to weird life events that selected writing for me rather than a deep passion for poetry or an obsession with books and reading, the relationship to writing is fraught. Casual. Too casual for a commitment. Like a man who tells his wife, “We’ve been together so long” in response to her questions about his love.
I like ideas. I enjoy truth. I delight in a clever turn of phrase.
Most of my writing is recorded conversating, turned around into a specific story. I like it, but do I love it? Yearn for it? It’s a pleasant morning.
I enjoyed these five hours the way one enjoys diving deep into a previous passion. The grind, for me, is enjoyable enough. I therefore pursue it with a calm interest. That’s all. It’s nice. It’s good enough.
Today, it was enough. And that, to me, is enough.
