Little Plant
Guys. I think I'm going to stop doing 365 posts. I'm just not spending time on them, and they're not serving the purpose they were meant to -- to get me to write. I'm just doing them to get them done, which is not really writing. It's typing.
It'd be one thing if I were writing about the pictures right after I took them, when the experience was fresh and I could focus on one and really do it justice. But that's not what's happening. I have 60 more pictures that do not have posts. I could continue to do half-hearted posts for them and probably finish in about two more months, or I could try to turn this into something a bit more productive and that will help me become a better writer.
So...instead of finishing those posts, I'm going to adapt it into a new challenge: 60 days of writing every single day. Don't think I'm copping out -- this is going to probably be harder.
A couple rules / guidelines:
1) I have to write everyday, but it can be a short or as long as I want it to be.
2) No apologizing for shitty writing allowed. Just write.
Here's day one.
(Prompt from the book 642 Things to Write About)
A houseplant is dying. Tell it why it needs to live.
I know you want to give up. It's totally understandable. Everybody gets tired. And I know it's partly my fault -- I don't water you often enough, and when I do water you, I water you too much. Also there's dog hair mixed in the dirt in your pot. I can't help that -- there's dog hair everywhere in this house.
It's a lot of work to keep living when everything around you seems designed to bring you down. You feel like nobody's on your side, nobody's looking out for you. That's what a mom's for, really, and you don't have a mom -- at best you have me, the one who forgets to water you and who sticks you on the windowsill where it gets alternately cold from the snow outside and hot from the heater vent in the floor. That can't be good.
But listen, little plant: there comes a point where you can't expect anyone else to help you or to even care about your predicament -- everyone is invested in their own journey, and when it comes down to it, that's what matters most to us, despite our sympathy and our volunteering and our attempts at friendship. We're the only ones who are with us from the moment we're born to the moment we die and every second in between. So you have to decide for yourself -- is it worth it to keep going?
I can tell you there are reasons to keep trying. There are good parts to each day. The sun comes out for a minute or two, or the light refracts through the raindrops on the window and makes rainbows on the sill. Each day summer comes closer -- the winter recedes back into the soil, bit by bit, and spring crawls past it to reach its green arms to the sky. The light coming in the window to land on your leaves will turn warmer, friendlier, and the air will thicken. The cold will disappear from your soil, and the trees outside will bud and flower with your friends, here again to wave at you through the glass when the wind brushes their branches. And at some point you'll find yourself smiling in the sunshine, enjoying the breeze through your leaves and the warmth on your face, and you'll say, "This is nice. I'm glad I'm here."
And I'll get better, little plant. When winter leaves the dirt it also leaves me, and with spring comes an interest in growing again. The same feeling that made me plant you in the first place will be remembered, and the cycle of the seasons and time will bring us close again in that never-ending swing of life, just as the sun comes back for longer and longer each day.
Sometimes, little plant, you just have to hold on until the sun comes back. You can hold on.
And now for the first time in ages, I shall post a blog post on the actual day that I wrote it.
It'd be one thing if I were writing about the pictures right after I took them, when the experience was fresh and I could focus on one and really do it justice. But that's not what's happening. I have 60 more pictures that do not have posts. I could continue to do half-hearted posts for them and probably finish in about two more months, or I could try to turn this into something a bit more productive and that will help me become a better writer.
So...instead of finishing those posts, I'm going to adapt it into a new challenge: 60 days of writing every single day. Don't think I'm copping out -- this is going to probably be harder.
A couple rules / guidelines:
1) I have to write everyday, but it can be a short or as long as I want it to be.
2) No apologizing for shitty writing allowed. Just write.
Here's day one.
(Prompt from the book 642 Things to Write About)
I know you want to give up. It's totally understandable. Everybody gets tired. And I know it's partly my fault -- I don't water you often enough, and when I do water you, I water you too much. Also there's dog hair mixed in the dirt in your pot. I can't help that -- there's dog hair everywhere in this house.
It's a lot of work to keep living when everything around you seems designed to bring you down. You feel like nobody's on your side, nobody's looking out for you. That's what a mom's for, really, and you don't have a mom -- at best you have me, the one who forgets to water you and who sticks you on the windowsill where it gets alternately cold from the snow outside and hot from the heater vent in the floor. That can't be good.
But listen, little plant: there comes a point where you can't expect anyone else to help you or to even care about your predicament -- everyone is invested in their own journey, and when it comes down to it, that's what matters most to us, despite our sympathy and our volunteering and our attempts at friendship. We're the only ones who are with us from the moment we're born to the moment we die and every second in between. So you have to decide for yourself -- is it worth it to keep going?
I can tell you there are reasons to keep trying. There are good parts to each day. The sun comes out for a minute or two, or the light refracts through the raindrops on the window and makes rainbows on the sill. Each day summer comes closer -- the winter recedes back into the soil, bit by bit, and spring crawls past it to reach its green arms to the sky. The light coming in the window to land on your leaves will turn warmer, friendlier, and the air will thicken. The cold will disappear from your soil, and the trees outside will bud and flower with your friends, here again to wave at you through the glass when the wind brushes their branches. And at some point you'll find yourself smiling in the sunshine, enjoying the breeze through your leaves and the warmth on your face, and you'll say, "This is nice. I'm glad I'm here."
And I'll get better, little plant. When winter leaves the dirt it also leaves me, and with spring comes an interest in growing again. The same feeling that made me plant you in the first place will be remembered, and the cycle of the seasons and time will bring us close again in that never-ending swing of life, just as the sun comes back for longer and longer each day.
Sometimes, little plant, you just have to hold on until the sun comes back. You can hold on.
And now for the first time in ages, I shall post a blog post on the actual day that I wrote it.