Mews

When your dad says "please, write again," when your husband no longer has your blog bookmarked, when your browser - yes, even your dear, loyal browser - has forgotten your URL, it's time to throw a little post up on the old bloggy-poo.

It's not like I haven't been writing. It's just been an inward time, not a worldwide time. My last real bit of writing here was back on April 13, two days before a relatively minor life-changing bump in the road came my way, making me turn inward. I think I've come out the other side of it though, with a better sense of what my life could look like, and a clue or two about how to get there. And meanwhile, there has been art and joy. Music-making. Merry-making. I've taken a step I've felt meant to take since childhood awakenings, though at the same time I feel more childlike than ever, at the beginning of a young, new journey.

Though in some ways my April 15 sadness has only been replaced by a new sadness. (That seems to be my m.o., I need at least one major gripe at any given time.) Time will tell if the self-inflicted sacrifice my bridegroom and I are making will result in better careers, but for now, and more acutely than before, it only means loneliness.

Because the catch is that although I enjoy my new roommate-free space and after months of distraction I feel energized to take on a new chapter in my working life, I'm so over self-development. I feel I've figured myself out by now, and I don't need this much space to keep navel gazing. I want to figure out my new, one and only roommate. I want to figure out our routine, and our ups and downs. In the back of my head I also wonder if I'm developing a mental block to cohabiting, that when the option to live together is no longer an option, I'll be so accustomed to my own space and pace, that I will flip.

È follia. I just need something new to worry about.

If nothing else I am learning to write. In fact, instead of using this space for self-exploration, maybe I'll practice the kinds of personal essays David Sedaris has mastered to such acclaim, the kind that are deeply personal, yet flout the boundary between fact and fiction....

But really, I've gotten paid to write a few times, and I'm seeing how I could do more with this. I'm not looking to sell a novel anytime soon, and for a long time I will be happy to keep my fiction to myself, but I can see grantwriting go somewhere, and music journalism, and maybe even other kinds of journalism. And why not see what works? Four days a week I only have myself to amuse, and I've got lots of time for it.....