supermarket

This is going to be a post about me. And writing. "But Niobe," I hear you say in a pleasant yet puzzled voice, "that would be different from all your other posts exactly how?" And you would be right. This blog is about me. And writing. And me writing about me. And me writing about writing. But mostly me writing about me. Interspersed with some links and pictures.

So now that I've simultaneously introduced the post and subtly lowered your expectations, here's what I'm really trying to say. Many bloggers who I very much like and admire have said, with a certain amount of fervor, that they love to write. That they need to write. That if they were stranded on a desert island, while waiting to be rescued, they would spend their time scratching sonnets in the sand with a stick.

But I'm not a writer. I have a real job, which on most days I perform with a reasonable amount of competence and on other days, like, for example, yesterday, I, well, don't. And as for the way I feel about writing, let me tell you a story about grocery shopping.

It's always difficult for me to set aside the time to shop for groceries. I make all sorts of excuses to delay the trip. Cereal, I tell myself, is a perfectly acceptable dinner. The expiration date on the milk is really more of a suggestion than a hard and fast rule. But when I finally arrive at the grocery store, I feel only happy anticipation. The aisles are well-lit and beautifully clean. There's music playing in the background. Laid out before me, in neatly arranged rows, are interesting things in pretty packages and all I have to do is pick the ones I want.

As I make my way through the store, I consider each item carefully before adding it to my cart. I roll the apples over, checking for soft spots. I compare prices of laundry detergents. I visualize the pasta, colored black with squid ink, as a background for tomato sauce. Sometimes I pick something up then put it down again, usually and with a twinge of guilt, on the wrong shelf. I work my way through the store, up one aisle and down the next, proceeding methodically from the dairy section all the way to frozen foods, watching the pile in my cart get higher and higher.

At the cashier, as the groceries slide down the conveyor belt, I feel an inordinate sense of accomplishment. Once I get home, exhibiting compulsive tendencies that would be a surprise to anyone who's seen my closet, I line everything up in the refrigerator, evenly spaced, separated by size and food group, labels facing outward. And then, all too soon, it's time to do the whole thing over again.

And that's exactly how I feel about writing.