This morning I deleted my whole iPhoto library.
I am not patient with computers and when I knew mine was keeping me from plugging emojis into the Google search bar to see if they would produce any results, I decided to throw out everything in my ‘Picture’ folder and accidentally trashed my whole iPhoto library.
It took thirteen minutes to erase the whole thing and says it will take seventeen hours to restore it.
I also made Scott breakfast, read insightful blog posts, wondered if I damaged something in my knee surfing and skateboarding and wandered about the house trying to decide what I was going to do today that would allow me to consider it productive.
The thing is, some days I am incredibly busy. I work in an office over an hour away from my house. I coach junior high girls in surfing. I manage a property close by. I try to maintain relationships with my surf sponsors. But some days are for writing. Writing exactly what is not specified by me. Sometimes it’s articles I hope will go in magazines, sometimes it’s emails, sometimes it’s in my journal, and mostly it’s for this blog.
The other day someone asked me if I was a stay at home wife. I was about to say, is that a thing? But instead I said “No, I actually have four other jobs” and then listed them off defensively so she would never get the idea that I wander around my 10X10 living room on Thursday mornings trying to think of what I should be doing.
After the kid I originally nannied went to school last October, I took on the office job at my dad’s company and another nanny job in the area. I did the new nanny job one day a week up until the beginning of this past summer when both the family and I would be traveling. The mom asked me if I’d like to work for them again in the fall. I told her that, of course, I would love to, but that I feel there might be a small amount of time left before I actually have kids myself and that I really want to use that time wisely and at least try to start writing a book. So we left it at that. I would be attempting to write a book in the fall instead of taking her child to the park and changing his diapers. Well guess what? It’s fall now and I haven’t written one page.
Sometimes I think I spend all my creative energy here (kind of depressing) and sometimes I think that’s a big, dumb excuse. Sometimes there are things I’d love to write here, but because of privacy, mostly other people’s who’d be involved, I don’t. I can’t. My dad would kill me. He’s the most private person I’ve ever known and would probably appreciate me being a little less open book about everything.
Sometimes I think maybe these personal things are the things that are supposed to be in the book, but how is that really any better than sharing them here? Especially hoping that a decent audience would spend time reading it. Maybe I’d use a pseudonym. Maybe my dad was doomed from the start when my mom first got pregnant and all the cells in that child’s body made her want to be a writer.
I think privacy has a very important place in life. Don’t let you neighbors hear you talking to your stuffed animals, close the door to the bathroom, don’t pick your nose at work. It’s just, even if I live a hundred and two years, that won’t be that long in the great, grand life of the world. And while I’m here, I at least want to know that I’m being authentic and true to myself.
I guess the inspiration behind being an open book and writing a book is that, ultimately, I want people in the world to feel less alone, the way I do when I’m reading something I love.
But am I ready to write the book? Have I experienced enough? Have I developed my writing style? Should I be going to the library to write instead of sitting at my kitchen table getting peanut butter on my notepad? Where do you start?
Dear internet, thanks for listening.