The less time I have, the more I want to write. I find it suffocating not to write.

I remember reading somewhere that when attending conferences you should turn in early and journal. I was in an academic institute during the first half of June. Every night I would come back to my room and crash – I’d been up for hours, jetlagged on the first several days. At least I got up early enough to meditate in the mornings. But I couldn’t find the time to write.

When I’m in a relationship I talk more than I write. Conversation is a substitute for expressing thoughts in writing, but misses that hard clarity that comes with setting words down one after another. I had to revise this paragraph to avoid using the word “squander”.

I write – it’s not that I don’t write. There’s a novel trundling along, and I journal haphazardly, though not at conferences. But I miss writing here, in public.

I’ve made this promise in the past. But here it is again: one blog post a week, starting with now-ish.

I need to re-work my CMS so that it’s simpler to publish and announce posts. I don’t want to have to fiddle with that. Writing is hard enough. It takes ages to find a good image, so I’ll probably skip on those.

These words are, as they always have been and always will, an invitation. I don’t know what I’m inviting you to. I’m standing at the door, same as you. We’ll go in together, see what we find, what trouble we can get into.

I am intrigued by the challenge of finding the shortest path between my experience and a public expression that is not altogether without merit.

The less time I have, the more I want to write.

I’m not afraid of wasting my time, almost all my best memories are of exactly that. Going to conferences and soaking it all in, talking with my partner in bed, writing.

I can’t account for this wellspring of words. They refused to be accounted.

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