It’s one of those dark and stormy mornings here in The Burg, and in about ninety minutes I’m gonna have to get up and walk out there and maybe get rained on. It’s hard to say, because at the moment it doesn’t look like it’s raining, but that could change by the time I’m dress and made up and heading out the door.
That’s the way life is: one moment you’re blogging, the next you’re stuck in a thunderstorm and walking a mile in the rain.
I wrote last night. I wrote a lot. About a thousand words for my recap of a show I’m reviewing, and another thousand for the novel, and that’s a lot of words for one night. It does seems as if I get up, write, go to work, program, come home, write, and crash about eleven at night. Every night. Well, almost: I do take some weekends off. Not a lot, but they are there.
One of the things I’ve done in the last few weeks it take some time and go back and read a few of my old posts. Most of them aren’t really that interesting: there was a period in 2012 where I didn’t say much of anything, and then suddenly: boom! I’ve got a lot on my mind and I’m gibbering all over the place. I do know there were weeks in early 2012 when I was depressed as hell, and I struggled to write. I struggled a lot. Hell, I was struggling with everything–but that let to me getting therapy, and that was the first step I took to becoming who I am today. Which may or may not be such a good thing, but that’s another post.
Last night I was checking out a few of the old posts and ran across one that I remember fondly, but hadn’t read all the way through in years. I remembered the last third of it quite will, but I’d completely forgotten the majority of the post, and in their I found the story, pretty much laid out from the beginning, of how Annie and Kerry started. It brought back a lot of memories, for it was a different local, a different time, and I was a far different person. There were things I wanted to say, and I’d yet to begin writing the way I do today: about the only time I’d speak in prose was here in this blog. There were no stories other than the ones I was creating in my head–
And I was sharing them with only one person.
I don’t want to say “Those were the days,” because in a lot of ways they weren’t good days. I was in a lot of pain, and even though the pain returns once in a while, it wasn’t like that pain. Then again, I didn’t write today like I did back then, either. To be honest it was more fun, because I was creating from scratch, and ideas were flowing, and it was helping me through hard times. The ideas are still there, but today . . . I don’t seem to have the magic that I once had. Maybe that’s because of . . . reasons.
My therapist always tells me not to look back because you can’t change the past. I don’t want to change the past.
But I would love to bring parts of it to the present so I can hold it in the future.