After writing or editing nearly everyday for the past 22 months, not that anyone is maniacally and pseudo-sadistically keeping track, I took a break. Man, my fingers were tired! Tired of typing, of twiddling, of transitioning between typing and twiddling and of all of those minutes in the day having to be ready at a moment's notice to either type of twiddle.
The family paid good money to leave behind reality for 12 days and that reality included all regular activities: writing, exercise, initially welcomed, and then very soon after unwelcomed, sarcastic retorts and jousting, both of the verbal and imaginary kind. Yes, we went off on a family holiday and, contrary to what those men with beards on the corner would want you to believe, I left my keyboard at home (those bearded men on the corner seem to have a troublesome and highly confusing agenda - some would say they should keep their thoughts and their beards to themselves. I don't, as I love a free brush whenever I walk by.
Yes, I debated bringing a computer with me, but I wondered if I wanted to be that guy, before realizing that I have always been that guy aside from a short out-of-body experience I went through when I was 12. So, I thrust myself into the unknown and also into a shirt that had shrunk in the wash and was now too small and thus perfect for making my miniature muscles look bulging.
Hawaii, as I will write about in the future, was amazing. Some have referred to it as a tropical paradise, which is totally accurate. Others have called it a wonderland, which is also quite true. Still other people have called it a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Those people shouldn't be trusted, although they do make quite accurate restaurant reviews.
We were so busy having fun that I didn't miss writing at all, or more correctly, I only missed it during those few minutes each evening after another day-long adventure when I huddled on the floor in the bathroom dealing with my withdrawal. In some ways I longed to write and in other ways, it was more of a medium distance, somewhere between short and long, but ends up being hard to define.
But in other ways, without writing, I also felt free like a caged bird who finally figured out how to open the latch or just one of those other birds who live outside cages who could show a tiny bit more compassion for their caged brethren. Before our trip I had felt trapped by the cage of my writing rituals and intimidated by all of the yelling and screaming and domino tiles that accompanied both the demands I placed on myself as well as those that were called in during phone-in hours to spend every free moment typing away.
But on the trip, free time was spent either looking at my wife, myself, or drawing pictures of some weird hybrid of the two of us that I imagine when brushing my teeth. I imagine a lot while performing hygienic tasks in the bathroom and hope one day to put out a series of graphic novels for new citizens as many of the thoughts revolve around immigration. I blame the new floss I'm using.
Then, as all vacations do, it ended, but thankfully not with a crash or, more confusingly, with a loud pop and whistle and free popcorn. I returned to my land, my house, my lair and my computer, and when no one was looking, I wanted to give it either a high five or an embrace, but was so indecisive I made some toast.
So, here I am, writing again. It feels similar to how it once did, and yet, it also feels quite different like in a hard-to-quantify-but-not-impossible-only-I'm-not-in-the-mood-right-now-to-explore-all-the-various-small-ways-it-could-be-quantified-not-to-say-I-won't-feel-differently-tomorrow-so-please-check-in.
I am still the same person with my unique views that may place me high on the -first-to-be-given-up-for-alien-adoption-if-the-topic-comes-up. And yet my experiences have changed me forever and have expanded my brain to the point where I'm looking for a large playground, just not so large that visitors start wondering "what's up with all of the empty space here, couldn't they have added in a swing set?" if you know what I'm talking about. I don't.
Will I return to writing each and every day? Will I continue to stare at the screen blinking as if to pray for the pieces to write themselves? Will I stop thinking about gnawing on raw ginger and just take the plunge already? Will I take off these safety goggles at some point so I seem "more presentable"?
All good questions! And no answers! Some things never change, until they do. Only time will tell and, in my experience, only if I start to tip bigger.
