A startling realization from Word. Yes, apparently I have created 39 unnamed documents during my designated writing time. And the startling realization from me? No, I do not want to save anything from Document39.
This is my new practice: setting aside specific daily time commitments to writing. First, an hour or two of job hunt (the worst), then lunch, then an entire afternoon of reading and writing. Writing time, all to myself, to get back into the swing of things.
But things are not swinging. Things are garbled. Boring. I’m bored with myself. I’m thinking of all the stupid things that I’ve done in the past, how I have a way of projecting stupid into the future. And why can’t I seem to get outside of my own head? Write about trees or bakeries or make some interesting political noises?
Why do I write?
This morning my left arm seized up, right in the shoulder-area and for a minute I thought, here goes, I’m having a heart attack. The big one. It was maybe a full minute of clutching my shoulder and wondering who will find me before I realized (via a dramatic popping sound when I raised my left arm) that it was just my spine playing tricks on my trapezius and shoulder blade.
I’m reminded of this because sometimes I get writer’s cramp in my mid-thoracic spine. Some doctors have told me it’s actually because I’m lacking the natural curvature at the base of my neck, or because I have an extra vertebrae, or because my t9 or c4 or [insert random spine doctor talk for a bone in my back] is rotated slightly inward instead of outward… but rather than accept their diagnosis of me as a spinal circus freak I learn to manage my condition by writing–recognizing that my body has graciously decided to channel any uncomfortable, upsetting or unexplored thoughts/feelings into sharp back pains.
But writing is a pain.*
(*see comments)
my husband got art school and all I got's this stupid blog 