I used to write.
I was an English major in college. My first post-grad job was as a magazine editor. I had a blog. I’ve written short stories, novels, papers for as long as I can remember. Writing was my forte, how I defined myself. I listed it as a hobby when I rattled them off on first dates and took the greatest pleasure in crafting the perfect sentence or finding just the right word.
But at some point, it started to feel like work. Not that it was hard, necessarily, but it was a duty, a task to be checked off. And then I knew it was time to step away.
I haven’t been feeling like myself lately, and I’ve always felt like my best self as a writer. So I’m finding my way back, little by little, and this seemed like a fine place to start. I’m not one to bear my soul, and I’m not giving myself a lot of rules. In my favorite movie, You’ve Got Mail, Meg Ryan’s character notes that when communicating via e-mail, you’re more likely to write about nothing than something, but that all of the nothing means more than so many somethings. It’s an adage I find to be true in most aspects of life–the everyday says as much as the special occasion, the date nights spent eating ice cream sundaes on the couch are more memorable than the ones spent at parties. I want to celebrate the mundane, the little moments, the unexpected bits of sparkle that don’t get the attention they deserve.
I don’t claim to be particularly interesting, witty, or original. I like my iced caramel macchiatos in the summer and my red Starbucks cups in the winter. I worship at the altar of Carrie Bradshaw and bake out of the Milk Bar cookbook. I wish I was a Rachel but I’m more a Monica, I spend a little too long staging my Instagrams, and, no, I did not #wakeuplikethis. What I’m saying is that I’m maybe a little basic, and I’m more than a little okay with that. So as long as you don’t mind (and, really, even if you do), come along, because I hope we’re in for a fun ride.