My blog is going through an identity crisis. I have nothing to write about. I have everything to write about.
Do I write about travel? Food? Health? The “writing life”?
Do I write sarcastic letters to strangers who annoy me?
Do I write heartfelt letters to strangers who minister to me?
My writing feels slippery these days. I get an idea while I drive home from work, but by the time I get to my laptop, my notebook, it is gone. Or maybe it feels to fragile to hold in hands that feel impossibly clumsy?
A few days ago, I sat on a beach in Florida. It was chilly and overcast, the white towel I sat on, “borrowed” from the hotel, garish against the gray.
I dug my feed into the sand and picked chunks of pineapple from a plastic sandwich bag, sweet and tangy and burning against the roof of my mouth.
It was not a luxurious, white sand beach, but a more rustic one, tiny shells biting into my feet when I walked to the shore. I inched forward towards a ledge made of those murmuring pink shells, my legs at first made cold and then numb by the lapping water.
A heron stalked a fisherman, the two staring off until the fisherman gave a soft, shallow bow. That seemed to appease the heron.
I write these memories, in this blog about nothing, because today, they are sharp. The itchy sand on my freshly shaved legs, the long white feather flowing from the heron’s head, the dance of the fisherman as he swung his line into the water, pausing, posing for a moment before slowly reeling it in, empty.
I like the feel of the words in my brain. The site of them on my screen.
“So what?” you may ask? I ask the same question.
But today, the answer is simply, because.
Because I need to write, and I don’t know what to say. Because a writer having an identity crisis doesn’t stop being a writer.