Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Writing about writing is like writing about air...

...or rather, it's like air itself. You know, like we barely notice air—other than in certain circumstances: when the fragrance of orange blossoms fills the air in spring, or when it's misty outside and light reflects off the fine droplets floating in the atmosphere, or when there is a sudden drop in temperature, or a million other things that might draw our attention to the air around us for a moment. Most of the time we hardly notice we're breathing it, and just like that, we shouldn't notice writing much, except for a few moments of beauty or strangeness or extremity.
So when I spend so much time writing about what is, essentially, air, I get a little fatigued. It's like walking around noting every inhale and every exhale and every shift in the breeze and the smell of the kitty litter. Yes, it's valuable to be aware, but I have other things to concern myself with. I mean, I have to change the kitty litter. I have things on my mind.