My life has drastically changed over the last two to three years, mostly for the better, but I cannot see how the grief I have has come my way. I am not an innocent bystander, I am a bit-part player in other people’s lives, all be it sometimes unwittingly.
I have not been asleep and missed things. I have not stumbled blindly into situations. The signals and signs have been there but the onslaught has been relentless and in some cases simply overwhelming.
Well, why don’t I write more? A simple question, but a complex answer is needed.
I enjoy writing; I like the discipline of being thorough, accurate and ordered. I want to be factually correct, concise, fluent and chronological.
These factors are like the sword of Damocles for me.
For me writing is painfully slow and the end result must be balanced and fully reflect my meaning and sentiment as defending self-contractions in future times is painful. It could also generate distrust by others.
The problem I see is only I know the facts of my life and this is my perspective. This is my bubble. Due to my anonymity no one else can check the facts. My facts may come across as opinions, which can be questioned but are not wrong! So on I go …
I want to write more often, but the rigorous process stifles me, and stops spontaneity; so I must change.
I plan to write non-chronologically which means I might have to use sign posts to past entries and sign post to future entries which may take a time to be written. This may mean it looks or feels jumbled but it will aid my desire to write more.
Success will tell when I reflect, in say a years time.