I had planned to get home early to write, so I could read. You see I’m a creature of habit. But my writing is proving to be problematic.
I have my way of being. A structure I run by.
I swim or run at an ungodly hour. It won’t happen any other way.
I have the same breakfast and lunch. Only the flavor or yogurt changes.
My classroom structure is set, like a clock.
After school I plan and then
This is my way. The way I keep my mental house in order. I have if-this-then-that thinking ready for variations in expectations, aka reality. But I try to anticipate the surprises. Breaking things down into three-part steps or a sequence that builds on itself is something I do for fun. It’s the nerdy teacher in me.
This is to say, that slicing has taken a toll on my reading life, and I can’t figure out a way to right myself. I’ve considered setting a timer and just powering out the slice, but that is not my way. While I am systems driven in the structure of my day, writing is a process that resists. It meanders. Gets distracted by other ideas. Wanders off into definitions. Consistently fights with the order of a piece. Endings become beginnings and then the whole piece has to shift. This writing thing will not bend to my need for control and order. It has a mind of its own and will not listen to reason. I’ve laid out lists. Attempted to restrictions and incentives. But writing is a noncompliant, willful child. Out doing me at every turn.
Meanwhile, my reading life sits on my bedside table, quietly worrying where I’ve gone.
This slice was inspired by Elisabeth Ellington’s words — my way. Wander on over to her blog for a bit of distraction.