Look What I’ve Done To My Brain, Ma

No matter what type of writer you are – a wannabe, professional, occasional, creative, frustrated… whatever – I write the following with you (and me) in mind.

The best thing you can do for yourself is to not stop writing. I still need to tell myself this constantly. Like, write something every day. Even if it’s just a paragraph, a sentence – it will still get your brain moving, it will still help you to remember where you are at. And you’ll never know if that sentence sparks off a magical piece of writing, or a whole series of them.

And damn it, I’ll admit that I contradicted myself recently. I wrote that my life is getting in the way of my writing these days; that it’s not my time to write yet. But what the hell does that mean exactly? Because, isn’t writing my life? Isn’t it going to be what sets me apart from the next person? Isn’t it what makes me, me?

With each unintentional break I take from my writing, when I do get the inspirations back, I don’t understand how I could have been without it in the first place. It’s like I need to remember how important it is.

One of my favourite things about writing is making that choice on how you are going to present what you want to say. I’ll get a thought that I prefer to write about rather than verbalise, and I’ll ponder on whether I should say it in a poem, a journal piece or a short story. I think that’s a very cool thing.

I’ll come back to the ‘life getting in the way’ comment: it could be true that it’s not my time to write seriously; as in I’m not ready to try and pursue it as a career… But I do think I can try my best to at least be serious about writing casually. Purely so that my ability doesn’t dry up altogether and dissipate into nothingness – and even just thinking about that makes my mouth turn dry.

Yes, I think I can work with the serious-about-being-casual approach for now. This means I won’t think about where my writing will take me. I won’t think about where it fits in with my life. I don’t want to go crazy just yet, not before I turn 40 anyway. I will just grab that pen, write my stuff, spark my brain… and if turns out to be just plain ol’ casual writing then in my eyes I’m doing well. However if it turns out to be deep, satisfying and serious – well then I will feel like a champion.

Heat Marks On My Brain

Sometimes I am such a wimp.

Today I was ready to give up on the whole working in the city thing. I am on the late shifts this week, where I start at 10:15am and finish at 6:30pm. Yesterday morning I was really liking the idea… but then seeing people “knock off” at 4:30 while I had to stay behind, and 14 unnecessary dollars later (no early bird parking available on the late shift!), I have officially decided that I hate this shift.

It wasn’t helped by the fact that it was 39c today. So I started with the It’s too hot to work – It’s too hot to get up – It’s too hot to travel into the city – thoughts, and so on, totally irritating my own self. Nice one Jen.

My Boy wasn’t able to drive me to work, so you know what that meant… The Bus. Shudder. Shudder. And bussing it in such intense heat was the cherry on the top.

Leaving the house, I saw a man in his 30s hosing down his front lawn. I cursed him cause he didn’t have to go to work today. I am terrible, I know. But I blame it on the heat.

The time I spent this morning giving my pot plants and annuals a good watering so that they didn’t collapse by the end of the day was time I had planned to spend making my lunch, having breakfast and more importantly… moisturising my feet.

Nothing irks me more than stepping out in sandals with unmoisturised feet. Having soft feet is very comforting.

I made time for coffee though. That always happens regardless.

I called Boy from the bus stop to have a mini-whinge about my morning so far. I felt about .5 percent better after that.

Then a lady rocked up at the bus stop and stood next to me, blocking my is-the-bus-coming-yet view. Bad move. She filed her nails and kept looking over at me. Like, constantly. Yes, I thought about getting her nail file and shoving it up her-.

She looks at me again.

“I didn’t have time to moisturise my friggin’ feet, so lay off will you!” – was what I wanted to I say.

I prepared myself for an irritating, stinking bus ride. I sat near the doors so I could get air every time someone stepped off.

I was ready with my pen and paper, and vented what you are reading now for the whole duration of the ride.

Then I looked up, and the bus was rolling into Adelaide’s Grenfell street. There was background music and everything.

I was so busy writing away that I missed out on the authentic experience of public transport stinkiness.

The irritation had gone away, alongside the heat marks on my brain, and I felt better. At least one whole percent better.

The Pond King

The dog is naughty for finding a way to get under the wire mesh, and into our pond – (if one can call it a pond at the moment). It looks more like a hole filled with thick black slime and muck: pure playing goodness – according to Ark – although, we are equally naughty for letting the hole get to such a state. We have plans to get rid of it as we have no interest in ponds and maintaining them. I am now past the traumatised stage with Ark’s obsession with such pond “goodness” (again to quote my dog); and I’ve had a couple of weeks to get over it. Boy and I are just waiting for a good time to clean the damn thing. I know it will arrive soon.

See my dog shamefully misbehave below.