But I don't have to write every day about the same topic for a whole month if I don't want to. And I don't want to. I'm having a hard enough time being coherent in real life right now - being coherent in my writing would be near-impossible. And I did get burned out after the exercise the past two years. I'd rather just keep trying to get in a good habit of writing regularly this year. After all, it's not like I'm trying to write a book.
This is what my book looks like. Blank.
I went to visit the midwife who so expertly assisted us to get our twins into this world. We got some fresh produce from her garden, some good hugs, and reaffirmation that we are doing ok. After I left, I reflected on what an extraordinary life she had led. So many babies and so many stories! Someone needs to write her book. Really.
My husband thinks I should write it, and I'm flattered that he has such a high esteem of my writing. He is so kind. But frankly, I don't have the skills needed to write a book. A biography, no less. I would be terrified at such a huge undertaking.
But as I was thinking about it, late at night, I realized that I have been writing a book. This one. The history of my family and my odd ruminatings on life. And I am writing a biography. My dad's. We've been working on it for over a year now. On the one, I just skim off the top of my thoughts and dump them here. On the other, I just listen to my dad's stories and record them. No big deal in either case. One I've always wanted to write a children's book, so maybe one day...
But for today, I think I'll curl up in a corner with a good book that someone else wrote and nurse my I-don't-want-to-itis. Where's my blanket?