You needn’t tell me that it has been some time. Though many of you have. You needn’t tell me that school and work are paltry excuses for an utter lack of composition. You needn’t tell me that school and work aren’t paltry excuses, either. Though many of you have. You needn’t tell me that there will always be time to write. You needn’t tell me that there may not be time to write right now, but there is always the future. Though many of you have. You needn’t tell me these things, but you do. And I appreciate it.
I write for myself every bit as much as I write for you. When I do write (which is seldom), it seems as though I write about my writing (which is often). This may come across as unapologetic narcissism, but I assure you, I’m not sure if it is. If anything, it is my propensity to desire writing, compounded with a healthy dearth of subject matter.
The truth is that my life as of late has become a layer cake of schedules, meetings, commitments, group study sessions, cereal consumed while standing in the kitchen, lunch consumed while walking to class, and dinner consumed on every other weekday. So I ask myself constantly, “what is it about my so-called preoccupied life that is worth documenting (at this juncture)?” I know the answer. We all know the answer. We know that it’s not the what so much as it is how the what is told.
You wouldn’t know this and you probably shouldn’t know this, because this “this” is part of the great tapestry that obfuscates the finished product from the process that constructs the finished product. But between paragraphs, I stood from my chair, paced back and forth, in a manner I am sure Charles Burkowski or James Patterson did/does (respectively), trying to gather my thoughts. I returned to my seat with a clearer head but no more peace of mind.
Sometimes, you just take what you can get. So accept this memo as a reminder that sometimes, words get lost, but one can always come up with new ones.