Neglect

I have been negligent. Not only of this blog but of my art. I need to write because it fills me up with more ideas to write about and more ideas about life. I need to write to fill my soul, and I know that is a cliche, but what can I do? The less I write, the worse a writer I become, and I have to remember that. I need to write daily and not just think about writing, but here I am writing about being negligent; I can find many journal entries in which I declare my renewed promise to write every day and then weeks and months go by without an entry or word. I could find those entries now, but that is the kind of thing that keeps me from writing. Whenever I stop to search for an idea, a book, an artifact, a sound bite, a quotation, a reference, a photo, a yearbook, I will inevitably be derailed and never return to the piece of writing that sparked the need for the search. Now, here, I could use a cliche (but I digress), but having read my brother's Facebook status in which he avowed that he would never use that phrase, I will refrain. He might read this and roll his eyes when he sees it. I do have a gift for digression, and here I could ask for your forgiveness, Dear Reader (is anyone a fan of that archaic convention?).

I have been neglectful of many things, but I think I will focus on things that I do not neglect. Work is one; when I have a job and am being paid for my work, I put it first. My children: I do not neglect their needs or wants most of the time; when they need my attention, I drop whatever I am doing, even work, and attend. I am sorry to say that that is the extent of my un-neglected things list. I am trying to think of other things that I do not neglect, but nothing is coming to me.

I neglect writing, first and foremost, even when it is my most dear friend. It clears my head and purges my emotions in that Aristotelian way it has for doing so. Writing is the best therapist I've ever had, and I have had a few. I love going to a therapist (in spite of the high cost) because for at least an hour every other week (I know that sounds excessive, Dear Reader, but you would have to understand the circumstances, and I shouldn't digress into them here) I can talk about myself, my life, and my emotions to someone who is going to listen and maybe steer me into a revelation (I will NOT say "Aha moment"!) or two so that I am purged (yes, I am a fan of metaphorical purging,) enough to be able to function in other areas of my life. Like a therapist, my writing (or the paper or the reader or the computer screen) will listen, and I don't have to edit while I'm doing it; I can save the edits for later when my head is clear, when my thoughts are more lucid, when my emotions are manageable, and when my time is my own. It is not a wonder that I have many unedited pieces, this one included.

Just now I left the laptop to find the quotation of Saturday's crypto-quote which I deciphered this morning; my writing here warranted a retrieval of the reference as so much of writing does by leading me to other things in my life and surroundings. Saturday's quote by Kurt Vonnegut, the only writer I have ever written to or wanted to know personally and hang out with, spoke to the practice of art: "To practice any art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow. So do it."

My soul has grown, if infinitesimally, with this writing. One thing I know of my soul, or inner voice or art, whatever it is, it is resilient and forgiving, no matter how many promises to return I fail to keep.