Like my “Inspired” main character Annabelle, I used to journal a lot. Before I was a professional writer, I just wrote. Once a day, twice or thrice a day, or all day long, I’d scribble out my daydreams as they happened, or whimper or rage at the latest contributor to my teen angst.
Now I’ve got mid-twenties angst, but only rarely get it down on paper. I’m so busy writing for everyone else – books for publishing, statuses for Facebook, tweets for Twitter, posts for my own blog and others, e-mails… – that I don’t take much time anymore to write just for me.
On days like today, I kinda miss it. My brain’s worn out from a storm of social interaction. Until I recover (which I will, sooner or later; I always do, ‘til the next wearying plunge), it’s hard to make myself do anything useful. Even mindlessly scrolling through social media feeds takes it out of me. I’d hate to start reading a new book when I’m too numb to give it fair consideration. Lying down for a nap or plunking down in front of Netflix would feel like a waste of time. I haven’t received any messages saying I need to hurry up and ABC before XYZ deadline. So whaddo I do?
Some long-shushed part of me murmured, Try journaling.
The overindulged part of me that claims productivity as its drug of choice didn’t think that sounded worthwhile enough. So this is the compromise. Writing for me, and posting for the public. An open journal entry. Not a proper blog piece, by Ever On Word’s usual standard; not a post with a point. Just me and words, wandering at our leisure, a little like the olden days.
If this post is well-received by my readers, perchance I’ll make this one of my irregular regular features, like my erratic book reviews and that occasional “hey, here’s a thing somebody else is doing, go see” kind of stuff I do. Come to think of it, the only truly regular feature on here is Will & Allyn’s Interactive Theatre on Saturdays. Go figure.
“As if I’d let you slack on my time,” says Will, snorting a laugh.
Oh, are you going to try to show up during my journal posts, too?
“Only likely,” he says, nodding. “You say ‘free-writing’, I hear ‘free-for-all’. It wouldn’t be at all like me not to snatch at a piece of the spotlight.”
True enough. Whatever. Gosh knows it’s not worth the fight trying to ban you. Heck, anyone in my head is welcome to weigh in as they wish.
My inner Annabelle really is starting to show, isn’t it?
Art imitating me, me imitating art. The symbiosis cycles ever onward.