Some people ask why I haven't been writing as much as I had in the past. Where are your books and short stories, or the blogs you used to write, they say. Time, I'd say, before my quick rejoinder—"Besides, who reads anymore, am I right?”
To tell you the truth, time was never a good ally. When you’re enjoying yourself, it always runs too quick. When you're using it as an excuse, it's lacking in its alibi. Cleverly dressed-up, surface deep. Because, as the saying goes, you make time for the things you love, and I sure spend a hell of a time scrolling through my Instagram.
If I'm being honest with myself, I was afraid. There's fear in being trite and sounding dumb. There's fear that I'll offend somebody somehow in this "politically correct" world. There's fear even in success. How will I come up with something better than before?
It's much easier to bark. There’s a sense of self-inflation that is cheap and quick. You can feel good about yourself by talking yourself up. Maybe people will buy into it. Look at my pretty pictures—where I've been, the people I'm with, the food I'm smashing. This is Mallorca. You haven’t been here, have you? What a shame, it’s beautiful. Look at my pretty pictures, look at my pretty life.
(There comes a point when you're barking so much that you are no longer saying anything. The funny thing is, this is why we can’t get away from social media. We both love and hate the people we follow. The more they scream about their significance, the more we might envy their life on the surface but not necessarily like them. I believe it is only in the silence, when we stop barking and regain our sense of listening, that we can speak meaningfully.)
I ask for two things. One, pray that I become a better listener. As I am learning, it's the key to good writing (and a good marriage). Two, if time ever comes up as an excuse in our conversations, slap me.
More thoughts to come—the words will find me soon.