I read through all of my blog posts the other night (because what else is a single, twenty-something girl to do on a Saturday night?), and I noticed that I'm always talking about a drought or a dearth or a scarcity of words. It seems like whenever I don't write in my journal for months at a time, I blame the words and their elusiveness--who can arrest the mercurial appellations which taunt and dance and entice the scribbler from just beyond her capabilities? Ugh. Gag me.
In all seriousness, it wasn't fair for me to blame the words: I doodle with words instead of pictures. Stories happen to me (pour into my head when I meet a disgruntled employee at Taco Bell or when I watch a magnificent sunset or when I'm trying to get to bed at three in the morning) whether I'm looking for them or not. I doodle with words instead of pictures. I read emails I've sent and I can't believe I wrote them because they sound so naturally professional.
Sometimes I feel like I'm made up of words.
No, it isn't language's fault that I don't write. Note: don't, not can't. I can write about anything, but I don't. I just don't.
So here it is: no more excuses. And this isn't like all of the other resolutions I've ever made on this blog. I need to take responsibility for my decisions, and I need to learn to express myself whether I can describe this feeling or that just so or not. Because who cares whether it's perfect? Not all prose can or should be breathtaking. I need to learn to trust the beauty of my life and to trust that I will accumulate words as I search for them, as I sit down to write.
There is no drought over here.
I have plenty to say.