I'm having a hard time getting blogging lately. I have so many fragmented ideas it feels like there is nothing in there at all. I typically convert those fragments into creative energy, but knitting and drawing and accessory building just aren't cutting it. I spoke to a (friend? friendly acquaintance? My social dictionary is a mess) fellow cafe haunter and writer. Certainly a more prolific writer than myself. She is one of my favorite run-ins because she is intelligent, insightful, and a little bit intimidating. In my dabbling, I know that I am uncomfortable with having an audience; I am afraid that the social hiccups of my daily life will bleed over and I will be unable to connect. My friend suggests I set goals, deadlines and stick to them to be able to break through that wall. I am taking the advice to heart and starting small: I will write something in my blog once a week. It may not always be cancer-ish, it may not be interesting, but this will be an exercise that will be something to keep me sharp and occupied.
I do what amounts to writing doodles in various notebooks. I have a handy Molskein I consider a journal of sorts: in go snippets and fragments and the occasional stream-of-concsiouness. There's a green canvas book that holds my occasionally-brilliant poetic efforts. There are three or four that also serve as sketch pads or list paper. I'm nearly always writing, even if just in my head. It is a chatty inner monologue going on up there. It is time to commit to the blog as a means to document this cancer-ish process and as a tool to assess and communicate my human experience as a cancer patient.
Thank you for sharing this blog, your heart, your illness. Our conditions are wildly different, my existence is not at risk, I can't know the fear that you have to carry. But there are similarities, connections, moments that your struggle and your bravery speak so clearly to how I feel, who I am now, and what it's like to live so limited.
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