Writing has a way (weigh) of working itself into your very being. It has a way of allowing you to lose yourself into the verse of life. Writing develps us into better people, more introspective, more kind and caring and even sympathetic. But lately, writing has a weight to it that it neither deep or poignant.
Writing is making me fat.
Trust me, I know. While I haven’t actually been on a scale to determine how much writing has contributed to my increasing girth, I know it’s because of writing that I had to buy a larger size shorts at the Gap this summer. (Ugh).
Let me explain. There is nothing more satisfying–for me, anyway–than to sit in a well-lit room in a comfy leather chair with a book or journal while snacking on a tasty baked good. Wash it all down with a fluffy coffee drink and–bam!–10 lbs later, I waddle out of my seat and get a refill.
When I write at coffee shops–I nosh on cinnamon coffee cake (Caribou has the best) or I try to kid myself with the reduced-fat fare at Starbucks. Yep, I am aware that it still has calories and some fat, but well….it’s got to be better than the old-fashioned sour cream donut, right?!
It’s not that I pig out the entire time I am crafting something literary. But I do feel a bit guilty going into a coffee shop to use their free wi-fi and not purchase something. So, I may treat myself to the delicious oatmeal and a vanilla chai tea and call it lunch, only to return to the counter a few hours later to treat myself for completing another chapter.
But the original point I am trying to make is this : writing is deep. Writing forces you to come in contact with characters you may like to have forgotten. Writing takes you to unchartered territory in your mind, in your life. It takes you to hopes and dreams, and desires, and failures. It takes you to confusion and what-do-I-do-next dilemmas.
You see, writing is heavy. Write on!