Writing is like squeezing a sponge. Most of the time you dunk it in the bucket of frothy bubbles, lift it up and squeeze out just enough to do. Most of the time you don't really need that much water to get the job done anyway. Dip and squeeze. Dip and squeeze.
But sometimes you wring the sponge dry; it surprises you with how much it held. It's empty. Desiccated. You have to hold it under the water a while and let it soak if you want to use it again.
My sponge needs to soak. I wrung every last word out of myself for my writing sample and since I completed it I haven't had much to say. Blogging motivation is never an issue--I always want to sit down and write but I don't always have something to write about.
I have passing thoughts.
Like how the whole Charlie Sheen thing makes me mad. The very same media that's putting him on show will be the media to lament his demise at the hands of those who exploited him. It disturbs me.
Like how sometimes the issues in education astound me with how far they reach, but sometimes something as simple as a flea infestation can bring my entire week to a grinding halt.
Like how the Northern California March weather also disturbs me with its bi-polar inconsistency.
Like how I saw the parents of a friend from Elementary school when I was running in the park, but I chickened out on saying hello because I wasn't sure I looked like a grown-up version of Heather, age 8.
None of these are blog posts, though.
Neither is a description of how I cut a lackluster treadmill run short and stretched my hamstrings on my bed as I typed. Neither is a foodie post detailing my intervention-worthy consumption of Reeses' peanut butter cups in 48 hours. Neither is a catalogue of the reasons I love my demanding little Twinkle cat.
I could resort to a detailing of my week thus far. Last night's Mock Trial county finals made me proud of my school, my colleagues, my mentors, my kids. Then I came home and barfed. Yeah, real barf. Don't know why. Dichotomy, thy name is PDawg.
My lack of ideas also generally parallels some disquiet in me. On the short list is the fact that I can't decide if I should post my short story here. Fiction makes me feel vulnerable, but I have this nagging voice that says I shouldn't pout around about lack of ideas when I have 6000 words sitting on my hard drive. (I originally typed "heart drive"--it may be more apt.) E and I are slugging through a more challenging time in our marriage. And my classroom has fleas.
Prior experience has taught me that time will bring ideas. Time running. Time sleeping. Time playing with the kids. Lack of time has been a theme for the last few weeks and it isn't going anywhere. I'm in the stage where "quiet time" has to be something on the calendar.