The inspiration to start was powerful and made complete sense, and I’ve enjoyed the process so far. I just need to stay innocent to things like “stats” and that damn readership graph WordPress plugs into your main admin page. As a friend said when I showed her the whole set up: “How rude.” Ha! I suppose it’s just a natural human response, another tempting void for us to plunge into in an endless search for external validation. That’s the side we have to control, and in a way its a good test to keep us on track. It forces you to remember what you enjoy writing about, what you’re passionate about. Kathy puts it very well in this post, which really soothed me in a moment of frustration.
After having tweaked a few settings, switched around countless themes, dilly-dallied with font size, page names, re-doing the preface and adding the “quote of the moment” [a bonus feature which lets my tv-producer mentality emit squeals of cheap thrills], i finally felt like it was looking like something i would want to have made. So I thought, maybe I should FB it. I’ve set it to auto-generate on twitter, because as I told a friend, twitter seems more subtle; it’s a place for sharing. Facebook, at least my facebook, is like a social bazaar. I am currently working on de-cluttering that system somehow. So the FB connection lasted 5 minutes. I figure any degree of self-consciousness will just take the joy out of this.
So yesterday, in an effort to actually do what this blog was set up for, i.e. reading, I made a second attempt to achieve some real zen-like connection with words and transported myself to the cafe. (futile effort to articulate name of said anymore). In that subtle battle to quell lethargy and a paralyzing kind of torpid vacancy that threatened to descend like a spiderweb (transparent yet effective), I ordered a cup of black coffee with milk and brown sugar. As I sat with hands clasped, looking at the rest of the cafe lot that were more than happy with their session of easy-going conversation and relaxation, I stared at my table like it was equipped with hospital syringes rather than early-20th century stories. Instead I took out a notebook, and started writing out my frustration. Sometimes treating the book like an academic text or project kind of gives you a tool to connect with it more. I should really re-iterate here that it’s not a problem with this volume that’s making it so hard to re-connect. It’s my self-consciousness which comes from so pointedly making an effort to read in a way that’s meaningful.
In any case, whipping out that moleskin (the vintage mystique of which I finally desecrated by letting go of perfectionism and simply writing what i need to at that moment)… proved to be productive. After having forcibly squelched some of the malaise that was eating within onto the keera-makora-fied pages without, I was ready to absorb the book.
I had a much better time of it than the day before, when I was fighting all the banter, the catchiness of the music and just all the sensory noise around me. Jotting down idiosyncrasies that appealed to me as well as my own observations, sustained the zone of enquiry and study.
It put me in a slightly better mood as well, feeling like a productive way to align oneself to the day.