Writing

Here I am, one month from completing the challenge I set for myself a year ago – to publish one post every other Tuesday, working through the alphabet with topics and titles. So far, I’ve hit every deadline. Sometimes just barely, but always published by 7:00 pm Tuesday.

I started this blog years ago, but until 2022 contributed to it only sporadically, with more intention than conviction; and motivation for my ABC experiment stemmed from a need to either just do it, or just stop it. The past year has been a study in creativity, priorities, time management, and commitment. And stress and satisfaction.

My idea was to find inspiration by choosing a theme-word that began with each successive letter of the alphabet. To minimize stress that could would easily sabotage the project, I allowed 2 weeks between posts, which is a ridiculous amount of time to compose these short little essays, but a critical step in the setup for success for my slothful self.

I wrote out a schedule, assigning each letter to its due date, did the math and realized 26 letters in two-week increments works out to 52 weeks, which equals 1 year, which appealed to my sense of structure and seemed like fate. So, I committed.

Writing is excruciating and I am a master procrastinator. Pressing the Publish button brings tremendous satisfaction, but staring at a blank page, willing the words to appear carries equally tremendous anguish, and I spent a few Monday mornings silencing the crotchety critic in my head to muddle through a shitty first draft (thank you for permission Anne Lamott) then sifting through the rubble of the roughness.

Many ideas meander through my mind while walking in the parks with Rowdy, only to be eternally erased by the time we return to the parking lot, so many profound, cleverly crafted reflections now lie lifeless in the leaf litter of the woods of Wright County.

An equal number of great thoughts are thunk as I drift off to sleep, just awake enough to recognize their brilliance, but not enough to sit up and jot them down – permanent plantings in my Field of Forgotten Dreams.

Painful as the process can be, I love the part when it starts to come together, my headspace is saturated with the subject, and I lose myself to the course of composition.

My animals are my muses, and writing about them centers my mind – deep dives into the sea of events and emotions that embody the experience of sharing a life with these beings I love. Beautiful, perceptive, reactive beings that learn and teach and muddy the floors and clear my head.

When I write about Chicago and Biskit I feel the frustration of getting up off the ground, returning my rear to the saddle, but also breathe in the blissful bouquet of a warm horse’s neck. When I record my adventures with Rowdy, I despair of the dog hair and drool drops, but also gaze into the earnest brown eyes of a devoted canine companion, and the cat chronicles fill my ears and my soul with the various vocalizations of Fennel and Mace.

My writing practice does not make perfect, and there have been Wednesday morning wishes for a do-over “Dang, I wish I’d said it this way”, and Tuesday afternoon assessments of “it’s good to go, don’t keep f*!$@%# with it, just hit Publish”.

My purpose here is to amuse and put a little positive energy into the world, and as such, I’ve not solved any global crises. I haven’t even solved the barn-swallows-pooping-on-the-pony problem. But while lost in the headspace of my posts, I’ve puzzled through some questions, contemplated my core values, opened my heart, and expanded my vocabulary.

As I write about my little part of the world, I ruminate a bit about the rest of it. I reflect on who I am versus who I want to be and realize I have plenty of work to do. Writing on a regular basis has pried open the rusty portal to my mind, making me contemplate, deliberate, muse and ponder.

Who is the person I want to be? Who thought the Crabby Cat would live to be 16?

What am I really trying to say here? What gives those barn swallows the persistence to keep coming back?

Where is the positive spin on this? Where are the most strategic locations to hang the Rowdy drool-drop towels when company is coming?

Why do I think that way about this? Why do the horses only roll their fly masks off in the far ends of the pasture?

How do I phrase this in a way that is engaging, enlightening, or entertaining? How were we so lucky to go 21 years without a raccoon detecting the cat food container?

And what am I going to do for “X”?

Wonder