Introspection for me exists in the space between my fingers and the keyboard; it’s in the junction of my thumb and forefinger, where the pen sits comfortably as it bleeds blue on the page.
It’s only been six years but, looking back, it strikes me as a harder half-dozen than I realized.
I took up journalism in that time. I woke up one morning as a stay-at-home mom and went to bed that night as a reporter. Apropos of nothing, I designed my own little local news website and started covering small-town New England staples like board of selectmen meetings and package store fires.
All I had to do was show up as a state trooper killed a questionably-armed man, and it turned out I had myself a portfolio.
It wasn’t long before I landed a job at a daily newspaper. I lasted about a year, then moved over to the state capitol to cover a legislative session. I took a step back from the daily grind several years ago into the world of weekly reporting for a free newspaper that covers a bunch of towns the larger papers no longer care about. It’s not glamorous, but it’s important.
There’s more than that, of course. I could write about it, but the story is more meandering than I want to be in my inaugural post. I’m going for pithy here. See, I’m a reporter now. My cadence has changed; it’s more staccato. I pick a theme and I stick to it. I can delve deeper in the next story.
On the cusp of my 40th year, some things remains the same. I still want words that flow into each other so prettily they make my ideas look better than they are.
Introspection for me exists in the space between my fingers and the keyboard; it’s in the junction of my thumb and forefinger, where the pen sits comfortably as it bleeds blue on the page. I don’t know myself as well when I’m not writing about my life.
A friend of mine reminded me of this as she redoubled her own blogging efforts recently. It came back to me suddenly: the sense of self, of community and of permanence that I found among so many others when I was a new mom blogging about things like endless car rides through rural Connecticut with a sleeping infant in the back seat.
The difference is, I had time back then. I must make time now.