It’s our second last evening in Ireland. It’s been a lovely visit with buckets of rain, some breath taking scenery, good food and plenty of drinks….and almost no writing.
I sat down tonight after the kids were asleep, in a quiet house ready to get some writing done. A perfect opportunity to get some words down about the unfamiliar but surprisingly gorgeous smells, sights and sounds….and instead I ate chocolate and found some crap on the television. I’m feeling awkward. After spending nine days enjoying the Irish air I don’t have a tremendous urge to write so I wonder…
I wonder if I’m procrastinating because I am tired, because I’ve relaxed my expectations of myself since being on vacation? It scares me a little and I am determined to get home and set myself to work before I get out of practice. Is that possible? I know I need to practice and work out my writing muscles just like any other muscle but…what if the last seven months have just been a fluke? What if this vacation some how broke my writing roll I’ve been on? Do other writers worry about that?
I’ve noticed that unlike my own, many writing blogs have more of a ‘how to’ message. I don’t feel I have the experience or knowledge to offer that kind of info and since my goal is ultimately to be as authentic as I possibly can…well, my blog ends up being filled more with observations, feelings and many, many questions.
Maybe that’s OK. Personally I’m more interested in reading honesty over lessons. As my sister-in-law just reminded me now on the way to bed…at least I’m writing. Even if it’s complete crap…I’m writing. Exercising those muscles even when I’m feeling little to none inspiration, perhaps something extraordinary will come out of it. If not I will just have to exercise the muscles again tomorrow.
Some observations I’ve made about the beautiful island of Ireland;
- The hung out to dry towels smell of orange soda and the air is scented like salty shit
- Beaches filled with people in wet suits and the Irish catching the waves on the body boards in their fair pink skin
- The cookie cutter white houses lined along the cliffs with bright coloured doors, heavy curtains pulled across the entrances and wee children playing football in the mossy front.
- Fresh picked eggs lay waiting in red boxes along the streets for walkers by to drop their Stirling for a six pack.
- Thick painted brows on young teenaged faces trying a little too hard to camouflage their youth
- Muckity muck, and jaggies and good Craic for everyone to enjoy wrapping their tongues around.
- Narrow windy roads to maneuver through surrounded by hand laid stone walls and thick prickly brush.
- Jars of intoxication flow down the generations like the rain water gathers into the Atlantic.
It’s really not extremely far away but in so many respects it feels like a different planet when it comes to child bearing, style, home living, drinking habits and even food. But then again it feels so close and similar that I almost feel like I could run a twenty kilometer run and end up on my own porch. They have their ideas about trump and even our prime minister. They experience the same struggles with their growing children, and feeling satisfied with their own existence, job stability, marriage, etc.
I’ve picked up an accent since being here. Their speech feels more laid back, less politically correct and more of a tease. It’s fun I must admit…but I am looking forward to -not the journey but- stepping into the front door of my home in a couple days.