The lost Friday

Writing (and all art) is a love-thing. It’s a translation of the world we know through our own senses and filters into a form that is not only communicable, but in its very nature symbolic and meaningful to us as individuals. I cringe a little when I hear people call their art their babies, but they’re not off-base. It’s a practice of sending a little piece of yourself out into the world.

I’ve heard some folks call writing a cleansing practice. I mean sure, maybe if you’re writing an impassioned frig-off letter that you know you’ll never send or some greasy self-insert fan-fic that you’ll dump onto AO3 under a snarky pen name. But even these things can be emotional exercises and when your emotions are engaged in—what appears to be—an eons-long galactic civil war complicated by heavy casualties and absurd politics on all sides, just unraveling the weight of it from your fingers so you can type a stupid sentence feels like a monumental task.

Sometimes, all you want to do is sit in your recliner, eat a cake and binge watch TNG and Supernatural until you fall asleep at 6 p.m. Sometimes you need to take a hiatus to preserve your mental health even in the middle of a writing challenge. 😉

Anyway, I’ve driven the squalling squadrons to the back quarter of my brain; I cry-wrote a poem about a picture of my grandpa as a little boy in suburban Ohio; I painted some things; I planted half of my garden; and I realized that I’m my employers that guy, and also realized I no longer have frigs to give.

Here’s to hoping the rest my April is better than this first jaunt and hoping that all of April is writing gold for you. And if you’re fighting your own battles, I have your back, it’s okay to take a break, it’s even okay to lose this challenge. Live to fight another day!

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