A writer writes. That seems like the obvious thing, does it not? And yet. Apathy, lethargy, seventeen kinds of daily distraction, only five of which involve honorable pursuits like teaching and parenting and domestic whoseewhatsits, the rest flitting back and forth between Tom and Lorenzo, Already Pretty, Saveur and the Time Suck of the Cosmos site, which does not require a link as most of us navigate there unconsciously the moment we log on to our laptops.

Flitting is a good word. It describes my attention for most things. Not fleeting--no, I can sustain an interest over time. But after years of hyperlinked, hyper-fast thinking and doing, I feel some days like my brain is jumping too far ahead of my intentions and my desires.

Oh, I see the value of this–the beauty of the rhizomatic idea–how it can take you to unexpected places. But it’s not great for discipline, somehow. At least it hasn’t been for me lately. It seems like a contradiction, but sometimes I wonder if I were more of an organized person in general,would it be easier to give myself over productively to the messiness, the scattershot, the glorious non-linearity of huh, I wonder where this chaos will lead? 

I want to embrace it, but I also want to be writing regularly and I’m not. I need a daily habit that keeps me putting words down. I haven’t touched the memoir since summer. I haven’t written any new poems. At best I’ve tinkered with some essay ideas and done some free-writing, but it’s not enough. I am writing letters now, and a friend has asked me to contribute regularly to his group blog. I hope that’s going to work out because it seems like a great way to keep me on task to a certain degree.

But. I do this too often. This whining about what I’m not doing, what I should be doing.When, fact: I woke this morning at 6:15, made a pot of coffee, logged into my new laptop, went straight to Time Suck of the Cosmos…then slapped myself in the metaphoric face, redirected my attention here and started writing.

It’s a start.