Why I Need to Write More

I ache.

Let me explain this particular form of ache: I would say it's more or less metaphysical, but that would be a lie. If not a lie, at least a half-truth. Because it is, to an extent, part of my genetic composition. I think it's hard-wired into my genetic composition to write. As I sit here thinking about what types of things I haven't been writing, I can feel a gnawing in the pit of my stomach.

And I'm not speaking of the writing of blogs here. I've been doing just fine with that recently. I've also been doing a rather smashing job of doing nothing in particular (with the exception of packing boxes and moving them) for far too long now.

For some particular reason, I must have decided that a brief period before I commenced my graduate degree and start stuffing my head full of composition theory and critical theory (again! come August!) would be entirely devoted to--wait for it--nothing in particular.

Don't get me wrong. There is some idling I've done that I've greatly appreciated and that has helped to relax me. I exercise no regrets about having watch 3/4 of the DVDs in my second season collection of Psych. (If you haven't watched this show, find an episode. Watch it. Report back. And if you didn't laugh at all in the course of watching the episode, then I'm afraid I'll have to temporarily disown you as a friend. But no worries, when I say "temporarily," I mean it. I'll disown you for thirty seconds or so. Not even long enough for you to realize except I just told you I would!)

But today, I stumbled upon the blog of a friend I tutored with and took many classes with. (He, too, was a Poetry Major. And not the aforementioned of the bad-boy looks) His blog included links to his published poetry. Discussed his writing techniques. He's heading to Purdue for his MFA in the fall. He's a genius.

He is also working at writing. I haven't been. And as I read, and then when I stumbled upon more writing of other people I know via his links, my stomach sank. And kept sinking. In fact, I'm pretty sure it has sunken completely out of my body, past the ground floor of this building, and now resides somewhere in the dirt.

Some days I wonder why I feel so blase.

Today I know why.

It's time to break out the notebooks again. (Literally and metaphorically. I have to unpack them before I can write in them.)