I sit at the laptop on blog-writing day. Tap the keys. Produce blather. Experience has proven that the blather turns into intelligible prose.
Every once in a while, it turns into longer blather.
I've been writing about learning to be alone with myself, which a friend of mine calls dating herself. Be alone on purpose? Alone equals lonely. I wanted to explore this new territory, so I've now had three dates with myself. Not fun. They've all been tense, very headache-inducing. And then, on my fourth try, the solo date was sublime.
I wanted to write about it. I tried to write about it. The more I wrote, the more blathery, it became. "Sublime" has not let itself be corralled into words.
The thing is, I had counted on "sublime" for the blog. The bigger thing is, there's no panic. Where's my blog day sense of urgency?
I believe I'm having a senior moment—a moment that age and experience glide me through, unscathed. It's good to be seventy.
Every once in a while, it turns into longer blather.
I've been writing about learning to be alone with myself, which a friend of mine calls dating herself. Be alone on purpose? Alone equals lonely. I wanted to explore this new territory, so I've now had three dates with myself. Not fun. They've all been tense, very headache-inducing. And then, on my fourth try, the solo date was sublime.
I wanted to write about it. I tried to write about it. The more I wrote, the more blathery, it became. "Sublime" has not let itself be corralled into words.
The thing is, I had counted on "sublime" for the blog. The bigger thing is, there's no panic. Where's my blog day sense of urgency?
I believe I'm having a senior moment—a moment that age and experience glide me through, unscathed. It's good to be seventy.