Day 18 of 27 — Two-thirds Done

July 8, 2021

It’s an incredibly hot day, I have my curtains shut tight to block out the afternoon glare. I’m supposed to be outside under that strong sun, returning those library books that came back with me last week, but I put it off once again. Left it for a cloudy day. 

 

I fell asleep last night thinking of the dust elephants under my bed—probably what’s responsible for my sinus allergies. I named a few, and started a list. I’ll begin dealing with them next week. 

 

I woke this morning with the same uneasy sense I’ve had for a few days. I’d talked about it yesterday in my weekly Wednesday chat with a friend. I told him it was day 17 of my writing experiment and I was wondering if I should stop the experiment. I said. ‘It’s been good for me. I've built consistency, trust, also broken past some internal barriers about the time of day and place I write. Those panic attacks I used to have almost every day have stopped too, but I am missing something. Focus or variability or originality or purpose or something.’ I asked, ‘Is it strange that it is after writing three books that I am beginning to ask myself what I want to write and what form I want to use to write it?’

 

‘Not strange,’ he said and shared his own journey with education, art, and how he slowly came to the subject of his current thesis. We agreed that it takes years, perhaps ten, before one understands the medium they have chosen to use—so it is the right time for me to be thinking about my identity as a writer. Yet the conversation did not leave me with a concrete answer so I asked the question, why should I continue with this experiment,  again today. 

 

I was feeling unhappy with my last posts. I fretted about them while sipping my unsatisfactory tea—my Irish tea blend is nearly done, and the bag teas I prefer are not in stock in the stores, so I’ve had to settle for something blah. I pulled out Kafka’s Diary from the pile of books lying on the bedside table. I randomly opened it and began reading. Kafka was writing about how unhappy he was with his story on motor cars that had been read out the previous evening. He was exploring obstacles to his writing, mostly the comings and goings of people in the space he wrote in. It felt good to hear his doubt and dissatisfaction. 

 

Now, I pace around the coffee table. I make myself another cup of the blah tea, make a note to order tea online, and gobble several Nice biscuits. What can I change about this experiment? It has become too comfortable. I’ve forbidden myself from going back and reading my entries till twenty-seven days are done, but I know that I write about whatever is uppermost on my mind. Sometimes if what’s impacting me is strong, I take two or three days to move through my feelings around it, and the writing feels draggy, repetitive. I’ve nine days left. I think I need to find a focus—maybe pick one issue or theme and deliberately write about different aspects of it for the rest of the experiment. Maybe allow myself an increase in word count—overshot today. Maybe even plan a little. I make the rules after all, but I need to make it more difficult.