To Write
Sometimes I get gripped by what feels like a manic desire to sit down and write, just like the desire to purge my closet of clothes that I don't wear anymore (they aren't taking up an unreasonable amount of space; I don't like the thought of them being in there if they're not being worn), or the need to suddenly throw open all the drawers of our bathroom cabinet and organize (top drawer, daily medications and products; second drawer, hair care; third drawer, travel bottles; last drawer, pads and tampons), or the urge to start meal planning for the entire week (usually can only make it to Wednesday; Thursday, if we're feeling really ambitious). I tell myself that writing is cathartic, that I have a strong ability to get my thoughts across in written words more easily than if I'm speaking (which isn't always the case; I am very eloquent in the moment, particularly when I am speaking passionately, but when I have to repeat those thoughts later on, it seems like the message loses its verve), and that what I think is worth writing down, but it always seems like I spend more time rereading what I've written and then changing it because I think whoever else might read it (someone who isn't me) might think that I'm trying too hard to create a unique style, or to grab with a particularly attention-seeking opener, and that just feels downright cringy. The goal isn't to wow, it's to tell.
