Somewhere in my brain there exists a sticky note with thoughts I want to write on this blog. Or another blog, or anywhere really. It feels like they are festering in there, tapping my skull like HEY! LET US OUT! They are not ideas that will change the world or maybe even be read by anyone but me, but I still need to write them.
It feels like a bad thing, letting ideas die. And yet where does one find the time?
“Protect the time and space in which you write,” says Zadie Smith. “Keep everybody away from it, even the people who are most important to you.”
I feel like I’ve spent the last three years fighting to make time to write. I’ve altered my career to support it. I’ve said no to family and friends. I’ve spent countless hours toiling inside my apartment while the beach lies 15 minutes away, all on ideas that have a good chance of never being read. I think if I quit everything and never slept, I would still want more time.
What torture, this thing we call writing. What absolutely life-wrecking joy.