Last week I pondered a writing goal for April, something like writing a blog post a day, or a letter/email a day, or a journal entry once a day. something like that. But ultimately I abandoned this idea, because I am trying to focus this month on some eating issues – same old stories, same old compulsions. I don’t even want to write about it. But maybe I will. At some point.
I have been reading a lot lately, though, which probably fuels my desire to write as well. I jumped on the bandwagon and began reading Wild by Cheryl Strayed. I’m trying to pace myself because I like it SO much, I don’t want to rush through and miss something. I don’t want it to be over. There’s something about Strayed’s writing style that feels so familiar to me. It’s the way I want to write, or the way I think my writing sounds in my own head. Or something. Last night I curled up in my bed surrounded by pillows and blankets, and read late into the night, tapping out this passage on my phone keyboard:
Living at large like this, without even a roof over my head, made the world feel both bigger and smaller to me. Until now, I hadn’t truly understood the world’s vastness – hadn’t even understood how vast a mile could be – until each mile was beheld at walking speed. And yet there was also its opposite, the strange intimacy I’d come to have with the trail, the way the pinon pines and monkey flowers I passed that morning, the shallow streams I crossed, felt familiar and known, though I’d never passed them or crossed them before.
The book is also reeeeally making me want to get out! in! nature! and move my body. Maybe not with her monster pack, but it would do me good to have the sun on my shoulders and dust on my skin. Soon, I hope.