Here I am, 14 days into the year of 2018, sitting alone at my desk on a Sunday evening with a cup of organic corn silk tea. I’m staring unenthusiastically at the text editor on screen and forcing myself to write something, coherently or not.
Truth is, I’ve very much stopped writing for a good year now. My initial self-mockery of being trained as a communications graduate yet not practicing as much as I wanted to, has now turned to a heavy feeling of guilt and disappointment.
The husband has seemed to catch a cold from this chilly weather that is a rarity of a tropical, humid, sweat-pits kind of Singapore. Poor boy, I hope he gets well to fly for the week.
I’m also excited that he has purchased a new vehicle that will be arriving this week. He is equally (or more) excited and he definitely deserves this big ticket item for all the hard work he has done. He rarely gifts himself.
2018 will be the year I pick up writing again.
I do remember the exhilarating emotions of hitting the “publish” button and how a post has become “live” in production. I do remember the mind rigour that writing has put me through that is extremely gratifying eventually. I do remember the relief I’ve experienced after transferring my pent-up, disorganised thoughts into strings of words that have helped to structure the thoughts.
I write for myself and I want to write more.
Another week begets. Let’s do this!