WIP.

Watch this space. 

AND WE'RE BACK

AND WE'RE BACK

Pulling out the writing. That’s a bit of a trick, isn’t it? I have to pretend I haven’t stashed it away indefinitely, and if I’m honest about procrastinating, then somewhat indifferently, too. What I mean is: writing isn’t just a simple task, nor is it a complex one. The advice that’s to be trusted is an amalgam of the experience of multiple dozens of respected writers and pen-smiths, and can be roughly summed up as: 

Writing is hard, but make yourself do it every day anyway.

So it’s easy to say: hey everyone, my blog’s up and running again. Never mind that this is and will be the fifth or sixth iteration (social media outlets notwithstanding), and this will be the third or fourth time I’ve suggested I’m really doing it this time. 

So I don’t expect any sort of loyalty or belief here. Fact is, there’s tons of great material out there, and has been for years — a true diversity of voices and experiences and words whose. It’s long overdue, and most welcome. And the sum of it means to the fragility of ego: why bother reading this?

I don’t have any sort of satisfying answer for you today. Not yet. Instead, I’m going to set this simple goal ahead of me: for the month of April, on the occasion of my 41st trip around the sun, I’m going to push out 500 words a day.

Some of this will find its way to the web, or to stories, or poems, or pages — and some of it won’t. But what will happen is I’ll break through the three-week barrier that stands between me and habit. 

500 words takes me 30 minutes, give or take. And while I’ll want some of this to be immediately publishable online, I don’t expect that to always be the case. Because writing is hard: not every and each word that flow from my fingertips make the sort of sense to the every reader that they do to me, in my head, while I’m conveying my thoughts at speed.

For instance, tonight I wanted to share two things: one, I’m starting writing again, and that means I’m starting my blogging again. Two: something mumble mumble about a trip I took. I’m an itinerant fellow, so I’ve got a number to choose from. But you know what? None of them seem especially relevant right now.

Save one.

It was the trip of the unknown. It was my return to the U.S. after spending the better part of two years in the Gulf Islands of British Columbia, Canada. It began with me standing at the prow of a ferry as it cut through the bitter March winds of the Strait of Georgia late at night, steaming (dieseling?) from Naniamo to the ferry terminals in Tsawassen south of Vancouver. At that moment, on the cusp of turning 30, I knew nothing about what lay ahead: not where I would sleep that night, not whether I’d have trouble getting across the border, not where I’d get money once the last $500 in cash and credit was out, not even what I was going to eat the next day. I didn’t know the destination, or the outcome. I was in contact with no one, aiming for nowhere. The only thing I knew for sure is that I’d set out. 

So it is now: I’m setting out again. Here’s 600 words to show I’m serious. The extra hundred came along as a bonus this time. That won’t always be the case; writing is hard. But I’m doing it anyway.