January 27, 2016

On Writing and Not Writing

Moon set and sunrise from my porch this morning
I've been lamenting the fact that I don't seem to get around to personal writing anymore. I used to write personal essays and book reviews at Tip of the Iceberg (it's all still there) and then, more recently, book reviews and thoughts here at Terri Talks Books. Lately I can't even seem to write a brief book review. I hang on to this bookish community and participate mainly by tracking my reading on Goodreads, posting photos on my Instagram account, and chatting everyone up on Twitter. Why? I don't really know why. Life. Work related writing. Vague and unexplainable REASONS.

My current read is The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey and I am loving it. It seems to speak to my soul in some way. It is about life in all of its joy and lonliness and is supported in this by the setting ... by turns harsh and bleak, and short and fecund. This book reminds me of one I read in January four years ago, Touch by Alexi Zentner, so I went back to see what I had written. I found a thoughtful piece of writing that took me by surprise. I wrote that? Why am I not still writing? Again. You can go back and read the entire "review" if you'd like, but here is how I wrapped it up:
We have our own harsh yet beautiful forests that we walk through; forests that are sometimes tinged with a touch of the magical. Those places that hold memories and perhaps the lingering presence of those we have loved and lost. This is how they live on ... we remember them and we tell their stories; we pass them to the next generation. We walk again in those places where those stories have their beginnings and middles and ends. We can almost see them, feel their presence as though they have left something of themselves behind ... which, of course, they have ...
Well.

This little bit of my own writing has at least partially inspired me to "take up the pen" and write something today. I should write more often. I hope I do.

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