Ephemera

My writing schedule has been a little derailed lately. Not writing every day feels strange and unsettling now. I don’t feel like I’m getting any REAL work done when I’m not able to write. It doesn’t matter if I’m writing ideas or lists or sketching out drafts or freewriting, I have to write something in order to feel like I’m fully present in my day. And for the past several days, I’ve written almost nothing at all. 

I don’t believe in writer’s block anymore. But I do believe that some ideas or thoughts are just so unsettled, that it’s impossible to capture them until they become a little more substantial. Until they solidify a bit, it’s like trying to catch mist with a net. And I’m not sure if I’m swinging my net at ideas or at air. 

What I’m not writing, in particular, is my memoir. My memoir is my main writing project at the moment. But instead I’ve been looking at old family photos, photos from before I was born. Photos of my grandmother, of her sisters, of my great-grandmother. A photo of my father in Vietnam (the only photo I know, so far, of him actually in Vietnam. He’s wearing camouflage fatigues and standing with a thin Vietnamese man in a black t-shirt and blacks shorts, and black Converse sneakers.). Photos of family reunions. Photos of my grandparents. So many photos, and nowhere near enough. 

I’m not sure what I’m thinking while looking through these photos. But that’s okay. I’ll figure it out eventually. And my net will be ready.