I don’t get writer’s block. On the contrary, what I have is not at all big, black, square, and clunky. It’s inconspicuously small, a bit delicate, and perhaps a quiet shade of pink. It is a subtle longing for a familiar feeling. (Writing is partially activity, and mostly feeling – one I crave.) I feel it in the back of my throat, as if I have something brilliant to say (write) back there doing somersaults off my tonsils. White notebook pages used to inspire me to fill them up, or at least doodle something mediocre. As of late, I feel like I do a lot of “writing” and no writing (see [link]). Here’s what I thought about writing about today, but didn’t:

• A lot of things I love have died in October. I’m getting married in October this year. I have mixed emotions about this. On one hand this makes a depressing month happier, but it also sort of disrupts the solemnity of the whole thing. Not that getting married isn’t solemn – it is – and probably will be the most serious decision I will ever make. But my main point is that it has me abnormally jazzed about October, which is strange for me. I guess it’s better than the alternative of October making my wedding depressing. I don’t think that is possible.


• Voices -- recognizing someone from the past by just a fragment of speech. What if the last thing you ever know of a person is the sound of their voice. It’s one of the first things you forget once they are out of your life. Or at least you feel like you forget. It had been years, but I swear I heard this person’s voice in a crowd and knew who it was. So maybe you never forget voices. There are a lot of voices I wish I could remember. Sounds don’t last. Writing does. More than I wish I could hear my grandmother’s voice again, I wish I could READ something from her to me. I would just forget her voice again in a while, but if I had something written by her, I could reread it over and over.