Writing. It’s hard. Even on a good day, it’s not the easiest thing to take the amorphous thoughts in your head and make them appear in front of you, in words that you think maybe most people will interpret the way you intended. And on a bad day … I’m sure we’ve all been down in that hole. Sometimes I feel like I’m ripping off a bandaid — do it quick! before you think about it! — for thirty minutes. And if I had my way, I would be writing for longer than that; it just doesn’t happen anymore.
The desktop of my computer is a mess. There are drafts all over the place, some of them organized into folders, some of them lost in folders that I thought would help me stay organized, some of them just floating around. My new thing is to do drafts in email and then send them to myself. It is working out pretty well so far, but it means that nothing is very far along in the drafting process. It’s not very easy to format or edit in an email.
All my drafts are in their early stages. They feel tiny, incomplete, barely more than thoughts. They sit in my inbox, waiting for me to chose them, to shine more attention on them. They feel like little seeds that might, maybe grow into something bigger. I suppose now is not the time to realize that in my real garden this year, I only planted tiny things that would never get very big, like cherry tomatoes and hot peppers, because I seem incapable to getting anything to grow bigger than that anyway.