I have a confession.
Owing to a bad head cold and resulting loss of voice I’ve been house bound for four days. At great disappointment to myself, I haven’t engaged in anything more intellectually stimulating than watching arguably way too many episodes of Sex and the City.
Not that disapointing perhaps, given my compromised health as my body bravely fought off the virus, leaving my brain mush, but once again with too many books yet unread and way too long before another viable window of time to sit and “learn”.
I own all the seasons on DVD – something I may have confessed before here. Its good bubblegum for a weary being. However, as fluffy as it might seem the show always leaves me both inspired and disappointed. The source of the disappointment varies for each mini-marathon I enjoy. The source of the inspiration is always the same: writing. I would love to have the discipline to write more regularly and thoughtfully.
Ok yes I know its a television show and a fiction where the script is written around Carrie having the time to write a witty column every week and have all the long lunches and experiences that fill both the column and the 24 minute episodes and stay looking gorgeous. People do that though. We do the juggling act, with or without a make-up artist by our side to air-brush away our every creased meeting agenda and frizzy hair day.
But I figure its about discipline too. Commitment. And finding a voice. One that isn’t too busy scrambling to remember to observe and take note. A space which isn’t bitchy. One that enjoys the parts if the whole is not all that great all the time. One that improves the small parts on the way to the big ones.
Disappointments next time
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