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When You’re Too Busy to Write About the Important Stuff

woman-reading-letterBefore I settle in to do some serious creative writing today, I must fulfill an obligation of friendship. I must escape the keyboard, and put pen to paper. I’ve been negligent of my duty to keep my friends abreast of my girl-news via proper letter writing.

My mailman hates me. You see, my mailbox doesn’t get the attention that it deserves.

I only make visits bi-weekly to clear out the junk mail; real estate flyers, fast-food coupons, and annoying letters from our Conservative political rep. Buh-arf.

On occasion there’s a little treat in the mailbox.  My friend in Newfoundland will take time to write a letter, despite her aching hands, and my gal-pal in the great-white-north, The Amazing C, will take time from her busy family life, writing to me about the things that matter to her (on sparkly paper no less).

There is something about the feel of a hand-written letter that’s so much different from something we type at our worn-out keyboards. There’s something about anticipating what’s inside the envelope, taking time to sit and savour the words that someone dear to us has thought to put on a piece of paper. There’s something about knowing that someone cared enough to get off their spectacular tushie and find a mailbox.

Perhaps it’s because I’m such a tactile person that I so enjoy holding that letter in my hands. Perhaps it’s because I’m a lover of words that I take so much pleasure from being able to read a dear one’s thoughts. Regardless, I do believe that the alchemy of letter writing is a stronger connection than digital light flashing and dying, being able to be turned off instead of being placed in my bedside drawer where a letter can be unfolded and read during those nights when sleep is somewhere far, far away, and my mind won’t be still.

The problem with letter writing is that it takes a bit of time. Not only do I type much faster than I write, but letter writing requires stationary, a pen, a stamp. It requires getting out of the house and finding a post box. It requires the person on the other end to  get their mail, open the letter, and pause to take in the news that was so important it had to be written down.

I’ve been terrible with my letters during the past two months. The speed of life has whisked away all but the essential functions; work, eat, sleep and work again. This is the first weekend I’ve been able to stop for more than 24 hours and catch my breath.

When my Newfie friend sent a text saying he was in town, I realized that I’d yet to write to his wife about the new love in my life. I kept thinking; This requires a letter. This requires her to stop, get a cup of tea, snuggle up in her chair, and take in the words that I had married together to tell her my thoughts and feelings, and how my life had changed. Communicating in a letter is the closest thing that I could do to sitting down together in her living room and seeing her eyes light up or fill with tears as I told her about my losses and my love.

Alas, time passes quickly when it’s not my own. Before I could do a damn thing about it darlings, her hubby was at my door and shaking hands with Mr. Wonderful. Mr. Wonderful of course thinking that if he were indeed that wonderful, why hadn’t I mentioned him to some of my closest friends.

I’m sure my pal on the east-coast is wondering the same thing.

All I can say is, sometimes it’s worth waiting to spread really good news. Sometimes, when it comes to the kindred spirits of true friendship, it’s worth making the effort to make the news as special as the story of your life actually is.

This rainy Saturday is a wake-up call, shaking me and telling me to catch up on some of the things that I’ve been too busy for, for far too long.

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A Reason To Keep Writing

decisions todayI read a very short blog entry this morning at kelzbelzphotography about people criticizing the blog, topics and the writer.

It’s true, not everyone loves everything we write. I even get nasty comments from people I know, and people who only have the courage to identify as anonymous, the poor feckless arseholes.

I’ve even had a few rather threatening comments, and a few blog-stalkers, of whom I know their identities and whereabouts thanks to my obsession with the statistics page we have access to.

It’s important that we feel safe here, in the blogosphere of free speech that we are damn lucky to have. It’s also important to be brave, courageous, and supportive to other writers we feel a kinship with. For the others, in my case, the bigots, morons and close-minded, I either ignore them, or leave my opinion in a non-threatening way. You know, something delicate like, “Pull your head out of your butt hillbilly.”

You see, in this little space, many of us post our heart’s desires. This is where I come to tap out a few lines because I’m too busy to crack open the notebook on a new novel I’m writing. These few minutes launch me into my day and sate my proclivity to daydreaming and wasting my days away leaving the mundane to pile up like a big wad of anxiety in my mind.

We show you our stories, works of art and poetry. This is where we come to live out our creativity, and as you know baby-cakes, creativity is no mere sixth sense. No, it is the sacred expression of the human spirit.

The weekend blog-posts are written at my little writing desk with the morning sun streaming through the lace curtains and falling on the hearty green leaves of my beloved shamrock. From here I see the world and my future unfold where others might only see a weathered obelisque and the hyacinths beginning to poke their green heads through the grey-brown muck of early spring.