I’m supposed to be keeping up with the blog in the following ways: a Monday book on, well, you can guess; Jack writes on Wednesdays, and on Fridays or Saturdays I come up with something pithy, insightful, bittersweet, funny, etc. to say.
Even though I love to write, it has become a chore I will do anything to avoid, writing the weekend blog. I even color coded my t-shirt collection.
You know what? I’m so weary of words, and I bet many of you are too. Ecclesiastes 12:12 and all that. It’s been a year when people fling words at each other like mud more than decorate our souls with them. Reading for ammo, not relaxation.
I just don’t want to contribute to it more than I have. Three books this year: one on substance use disorder whose manuscript was turned in last December but disrupted by the pandemic; one on Conspiracy Theories, done entirely during the stay-home months; and one turned in for 2021 publication, an anthology of healthcare workers describing their COVID experiences. All of them are intense. All of them had things that needed to be said.
I’m tired, but not from the books. It’s fairly energizing to publish, in all honesty. I’m tired of trying to find the right thing to say. What else is there to say?
Maybe, peace out?
Can we lay down the crossed sword words, stop trying to find ways to jab and one-up one another, on line, on air, on your mark, get set, go because some pastor, some politician said we were supposed to or God wouldn’t love us and we might not get stimulus checks? Writers are supposed to observe, describe, and persuade in turn. To everything there is a season. Maybe this can be our season of peace, a time to stop throwing phrases and soundbites and nasty words at each other, and listen for a bit. Take the other person off mute these Zoomed-in twelve or so days of Christmas, and hear what they have to say. For love, for affection, kindness. Let them talk.
Isn’t this why God invented cocktails (just kidding, sorta): to keep family edges soft when the seams threaten to unravel from all those sharp jabs? Take a sip, count to ten, listen, keep your mic on mute, and enjoy. I have nothing to add to the collection of words that have accumulated this year, except maybe, God Bless Us, Every One. EVERY SINGLE ONE.
Peace out, and see you in the New Year.