It’s been six months, give or take, since I’ve written anything here. For the past six months my writing has been confined to menus and produce orders and checks to purveyors and the interstitial tweets that occupy my still moments. My fingers are now searching for the keys, my mind for words and ideas.
During my absence I thought about writing a lot. I composed a hundred short stories in that time that never found footing. I think this must be common with all writers, but it does not allay the incredible frustration of things that only exist in your mind — do they really exist at all if not manifest?
Cooking is a wonderful craft. It is fulfilling in the way I imagine being a stage actor to be: performing nightly for what you hope is an adoring crowd. There is a visceral aspect to it as well… it grounds you. It also grinds you. The job itself is incredibly demanding, and at the end of the day, exhausting. Sometimes the words were there at the wrong time, or at the time there were no words. Either way, clumsily, I missed one day then the next.
I need to write. I need it more for the therapeutic properties than the expressive ones. Writing lets me reveal things without having to say them. I suppose in some ways twitter fills this void for me. But twitter doesn’t allow for the restorative quiet that simply sitting at the keyboard does. I can just peck away here.
Today is one of those days where I am just pecking. No great truths have been revealed, and nothing terribly interesting discussed. And that’s okay too. Like idle barroom chatter sometimes you just want to say things. So now I’ve said something, and hopefully next time I’ll say a little more. Regardless, it feels good just to sit and peck away.