I have three unfinished drafts in my WordPress. I didn’t used to do that (side note: is that phraseology a Midwestern thing, or just a weird grammar thing?), but I find myself writing drafts more often now that I don’t have access to either my Google Docs or my blog at work, so now anything I write during the day lives on a thumb drive that may or may not make it out of my purse at home when I’m in a writing mood.
It’s over lunch breaks only, I swear. Anyway.
I also have several drafts in my stuff.txt file on that thumb drive, one of which is my semi-annual Dear Connor post, as my son turned seven on Labor Day. That’s one of those posts that feels kind of important — like, I shouldn’t be writing anything else on my blog if I’m not working on getting that one thing posted before the end of the month. (I haven’t posted one of those on his actual birthday since he was in diapers, I think.)
Writing — journaling in particular — is important to me on several levels, and I think that feeling of running up the down escalator that I get sometimes is related to a lack of writing time. Not that one is causal to the other, but they’re kind of indicative of one another, is how I think I mean to say it. Not only that, but I’ve been journaling for so long (some 35 years, off and on) that having a gap in my life’s record is a huge bummer to me later in life when I go back to reference some epic major life event and all I find is, “Mom and Tom separated a few months ago. I go to Buckeye High School now.”
Always pack your journal in your go bag. Now I know.
At any rate, I want to make a habit of sitting down at the end of the day and decompressing behind the keyboard. (In front of the keyboard?) Whether I hit Publish at the end of the night or not, I know that Future Me will be grateful for the time spent.