This is the title (subject) of an email I lately sent myself. In the body of the email, the following text:
But instead I’m writing a list.
On saturday – go to yoga, join the gym, buy kleenex post its clorox wipes tacks scissors tape
I did go to yoga on Saturday. I actually procured the items on my list (sans tape cause I think I can find some in my closet somewhere) on Friday.
Spoiler: I did not join the gym.
The reason I should be writing a book — I am in my late twenties (I’ve always preferred that stylization to 20s or worse, 20’s — 20’s what? Ugh, I know that’s obnoxious) and I’ve returned to live at home for an as-yet unspecified reason.
(It’s pretty clear to me, but it’s unspecified to the reader.)
I’ve read a million books like this — the protagonist (or the author, if it happens to be non-fiction, which they often are) has returned home for some reason or another (often to care for a sick parent or because they’ve gone through a breakup, neither of which are really my situation but I live on the periphery of both these scenarios) and, because they’re a creative soul, they write — just to pass the time at first — and somehow it blossoms into a beautiful, introspective book. Does it count if I do it in reverse? Can I go in with the intention to write a book and still write something honest, or do I have to stumble upon the idea of a book? Is it more romantic that way? More creative? Perhaps if I come upon it this way, it must be fiction. That’s okay, I’d probably make it fiction-ish at this point anyway. Too many people to hurt if I tell the whole, unvarnished truth, right? But that’s what you get for being in the life of a writer, right?
Too bad most people who know me don’t know I’m a writer.