It’s November. I should be writing a novel.
Instead, I’m going to try writing here. Every day. For a month.
It’s going to be tough. My job in a design group at Large Financial Institution – because yes some time in the last two and a half years I went corporate (more on that later) – almost evenly divides between attending way too many meetings and (re)writing documentation for a design system that is only partially finished.
When you add the amount of writing I do for work to the pandemic to the dumpster fire that is the 2020 presidential election, I’m not sure I have anything left to create stories.
And honestly, that feels really shitty.
It feels shitty because it comes on top of months and months of news coverage about how bored people are at home and how everyone is baking bread and learning crafts and finally mastering the guitar and becoming fluent in French.
I just finished watching Julie & Julia primarily because I am also feeling disconnected from my senses. More later on that too.
For now, I can only promise there will be words. That’s the best I can do.