“I am afraid to write,” said the woman with the two foot tall stack of disintegrating notebooks slowly cascading off the table beside her.
I’ve entered the deeply introspective (and painfully retrospective) downward spiral of pregnancy. With a baby due in “just a few weeks” (such a load of crap), I don’t have the energy to deep clean toilets or vacuum lint traps. So instead I lay on the couch reading old journals while my kids bring me whatever snacks they can reach in the refrigerator. Mostly apples.
My notebooks from the last three years are full of a lot of predictable stuff. There are lots and lots of training plans and grocery lists, some truly inspired stuff about body image and the sanctity of physical health. Lots of prayers, scripture I keep trying to burn into memory scrawled over and over and over again.
But the subject that surprised me most had nothing to do with barbells or bodyweight or spiritual/physical integrity or coaching or kids or homeschooling or how much I suck at laundry. It was writing. Specifically how I don’t do it.
Turns out, I have written a whole lot about how I don’t write at all. As recently as last week, I was frantically typing in MacJournal about how desperately I wish I would just WRITE ALREADY…write anything! As I went to save (because doesn’t everyone save such files?) I noticed I had 56 entries in a folder called “Gestating”, which I started sometime in the first trimester of this pregnancy. It occurred to me that it’s pretty weird for someone who doesn’t write to have written 56 times in 36 weeks. Weirder still that that number doesn’t even include the pages of her paper notebook where she “doesn’t write” pretty much every single day.
So I’ve been spending some time wrestling with my definition of “writing”. Clearly I have a regular habit of using a pen or keyboard to put words together into sentences. Based on the sheer volume of filled notebooks in my garage, closets, cabinets, desktop, and bedside table, I’ve had this habit for quite some time. Probably about 25 years. Confronted by the physical evidence, it’s clear that I do in fact write.
So what the heck is my problem? What am I saying when I say, “I don’t write”?
Aw geez. Here we go.
“I don’t write” means “I don’t share“. Strangely enough, it’s more specific than that, because I don’t mean share like in a fancy writer’s group or submitting articles to prestigious publications. “I don’t write” actually means “I don’t blog.” That’s an embarrassing thing to type. I mean, people blog about EVERYTHING. People blog about bowel movements and crock pots and dog sweaters. Some of my favorite blogs are just about Filofaxes.
So why don’t I blog? What’s got me so scared?
No, really…do you know? Because I don’t. All I know is that I’m petrified. And when I get this irrationally afraid of something I really don’t have much of choice but to go ahead and do it.
So…in honor of my fear of you, the Internet, and my disdain for the endless hours of the “last few weeks” of pregnancy, I’ve decided to blog every day. Every single day until this third daughter of mine bursts forth into the world and requires all of my hands and starts leaking fluids everywhere. I am prepared (as you should be) to find that all I have to talk about is how bad my hips hurt and how much I miss my barbell and how much I suck at blogging. But at least I will be “writing” and can finally shut up about that.