Journaling Again

I started writing in my journal again. Last night I felt obliged to complete the whole picturesque evening--a waxing moon, courting crickets, bronzy street lights--with me scribbling, a slippery pointed ink pen across the pages of a blue journal. It was part of my attempt to begin writing again. To make myself start writing I have to think of it in its most innocent form--as a pen and a piece of paper. Words wrap me in a paralysis when I think about what they can do. At the same time, I am afraid of what happens without them. Every day at work my words consists of about five little speeches concerning homeschooling. I hope my vocabulary isn't shrinking to only those words necessary for communicating homeschool laws to southern mothers. My impoverished state is evidenced in the fact that I spent several hours of elation when someone used the word "mercurial" (which they had probably read that morning on their dictionary calender card before ripping it off). My only other consolation (at work) is the West Virginian pidgin and their incorrect use of verb tenses. I have decided that an "office of one's own" is not the space that Virginia Woolf was talking about when she discussed feminine art. Reflecting on my own schedule, I think the space she was talking about was time. Lots of leisurely hours within to write and clip your toe nails.