Sequestered myself within the tomb of my own mind for quite some time. Perhaps it’s time that I peek my little head out and catch the rays of light. I ended 2015 much like I end every year, wallowing in self pity. It gets tiring; I’m sure it gets as tiring reading about it. As a friend told me during our conversation in the fog while being attacked by spiders, “You’re really depressing.” It’s true. Not even to an extent.
I haven’t written in a while. My online existence has become the proverbial toilet bowl for my verbal vomit and diarrhea. I am Calvin shouting towards the heavens, pleading for someone to acknowledge that I exist, that I matter.
This year, I made a small resolution. None of that new year, new me bullshit that people spew every December 31st at 11:59 p.m., but something that matters. I don’t want this to bubble up and evaporate before the second month of the year. I don’t promise to shed off the extra pounds, though I’m trying my best to get red of some of the excess. I don’t promise to volunteer more, or donate to a cause. I don’t even promise to find religion or attempt to solve one of the world’s problems.
Instead, I decided to turn off my TV and read more. I vowed that writing comes before everything that isn’t my son. I want to take it a day at a time, and, rather than spend my time staring at the small screen of blue light, make some attempt to live in the moment. Try new things. Escape my shell. Fully accept this mess of a human that I am. Get angry less (though, let’s be honest, that’s a tough one for me).
And I promise to write more posts, returning to book reviews. Focusing on writing something that is part of a bigger project. Stop daydreaming about lives that could have been if only this and that were different. Focus on the creative aspect of this blog. Listen to more podcasts. Carve our inspiration from what others are already doing.
Maybe take up a workshop. Learn a new skill, or better one that I already have. And if it doesn’t happen, try to feel less like a failure and more like someone who at least give it a go.
Coming up—hopefully—a review of Gwendolyn Womack’s The Memory Painter. Fingers crossed that I can review it without being too harsh about it.
Chapin City Blues 