Nostalgia, or homecoming-pain, doesn’t do much for me anymore. An object should serve a utility, have an aesthetic you like, or as I wrote about years ago have a nice memory attached to it. I used the word nostalgia instead… I’m not sure I believe in that so much anymore. An object like this mug with the pink note on it didn’t start with a positive memory, but I’ve ground that nightmare thought off it.
As an essay spoiler alert, I won’t be giving a list of top novels I’ve read or even top anythings I’ve read. 2020 wasn’t a year where I felt well enough to do anything requiring deep concentration. Reading has always been difficult for me. I am not an overly-distracted individual, but for some reason, sitting with a novel can quickly distract me into myriad meandry thoughts. 2020 helped me appreciate using audiobooks to wade through mediocre readings.
If I have any chance of writing “The Story,” I need to consider spending more time writing fiction and less time on things that create friction against my ability to write fiction. It seems easy spending my time doing what I love and not what I don’t… right? Within impractical applications, that means dedicating one month to writing Novel 01 only. With practical considerations, that means removing distractions to write Novel 02 at a more leisurely pace.
Yesterday, I went to the thrift store and the supermarket. I had the physicality to push a shopping cart and walk around slowly as I looked at various items. Today, I woke up to a headache with lower back pain, including my tailbone. Was the adventure worth the pain I experienced there, and would I do it again? I suppose in some sense, it was good to see where my physicality is at right now.