I haven’t written in a while.
It’s always been that way for me. Writing is seasonal, but without any rhythm to the seasons. I wrote during the winter, but my brain shut down during the spring. Possibly I just got busy. Who knows?
I should know, I suppose, because I lived it. But the only record of those months and days, that flurry of activity and meetings, is in my day planner. I wrote in my journal once or twice. The rest is unrecorded.
In my current job, nothing is real unless it’s written. We call it “capturing data.” Grantees get no credit from the feds for activities not recorded in some way, translated into writing, letters and numbers. A code that says “I exist.” Proof that, by golly, I did something with what I was given.
And that seems as good a reason as any to write– to make sure we get credit for how we spend our time. To prove we lived life well.