Dear All Of You,

It is Saturday in the realm of writing stuff. My Saturday writing stuff realm thought is: maybe I should write about writing stuff instead of writing stuff for a few minutes, but like a letter, at least once a week, like on Saturday. Or Saturdays, as in more than just this one. Everybody does it and I should do more of what everybody does. It’s a daily battle between “is” and “should,” though. Not weekly.

So, a weekly day in the life routine type thing. Why? Because I’m trying. Because I write stuff. Because I’m trying but I don’t (yet) write stuff for a living. Because I constantly qualify statements like that with “yet” so “you” know where my heart lies. And when.

Because this week I finished my week reading a drab article about how to spend the last hour of my (work) day. I finished the week and the day but not the article because it was time to go home. And write. For living, cleverly minus the “a,” overstatedly self-conscious. Clarice, for those of “you” not “yet” tired of my subtle fawnery, said “Nothing is more difficult than surrendering to the instant. That difficulty is human pain. It is ours. I surrender in words and surrender when I paint.” I don’t paint, usually. But I do surrender. To Clarice, seems, to love, to beauty, to hope, to darkness, to ideas, to light, to paint, in words.

So I’ll try doing this each week. Make it a thing, a journalish correspondence thing, documenting it all in my own vague kind of way. With images (see above—taken from a to-self, semi-snarky workday note). Because I’m an imagist, to put it outdatedly. And I believe in the power of words and language to shape perception. Reality is something else, isn’t it?

There are deadlines approaching, one next week. Wish me luck, anonymites. And do follow along, I implore and insist and request and do ever so humbly demand.

M.