two books

I'm reading two books these days, the first is One Man's Meat, a series of essays by EB White.  The second, purchased yesterday from a small independent bookseller in Louisville, is Writing Down the Bones, the classic tutorial on how to write.  I had not gone looking for the book but happened to notice it as I was browsing through the new book section.  I was in Louisville for lunch and exploration, the first of which I accomplished quite successfully at the Huckleberry Cafe on Main Street.  And the second is ongoing.

I was intrigued and comforted to read in my new guide to writing that the author had over the years filled and half-filled numerous notebooks and journals with petty ramblings, shallow complaints and immature longings, much like I have.  Since high school and maybe earlier I have used journals to record my thoughts and feelings; some times in my life I've been quite prolific, at other times I let great spans of time go by without jotting down so much as the date at the top of a page.  I was thinking that if I found all of these journals and combined them chronologically I might have a telling record of what I was doing and thinking for all those years.  Truth is, I'm not looking forward to this because I know what it will sound like: most of the time when I wrote it was sorry, miserable complaining and longing for something more/better/different.  It took me a long time in my life to figure out how to make things happen for myself, and I spent a lot of time just longing, wishing, missing out.  And luckily I had the impulse to write all that shit down.

But as my new writing tutor said, writing is a practice, and only by doing it regularly and honestly can one become a better writer.  I think I would like that, to become a better writer.  I feel as though I have stories, thoughts, observations to write down and share.  I like to write, I usually like to read over what I've written.  Sometimes it amuses me, often it bores me, but I find that I do come back to the desire to get thoughts on paper.  Or screen.

Today I'll put on my trail shoes and go for a long, fast walk across the hills near our rented home up here on Shanahan Ridge.  It's sunny but chilly still, good conditions for a brisk walk in the plains.  I'm just waiting long enough for our resident coyote to slink back to his burrow (if that's where coyotes sleep) for the day.  I have no pepper spray, little aerobic capacity and no desire to engage him in any way.

I'm fighting a desire to skip my yoga class today, but I believe I'll overcome that.  Yoga practice...writing practice.  Practice makes perfect....or at the very least, better.