Yesterday I returned to this blog and read a few posts and remembered that I liked what I've written here. Some of it, anyway.
Here's what happened: a dear friend of mine experienced a terrible thing (a relationship thing, which coincided with a world event thing, and it was all just very tumbly tumultuous). Because of That Thing, we started writing back and forth, long slippery lengths of messages that just went on and on, about events in our pasts and presents and so forth, as you do, when you've known someone for a long time.
Somehow, all that writing kickstarted the other part of my writing brain, the dissertation part. ARE WE STILL DOING THAT OH MY GOD YES WE ARE. More on that later, maybe. It was surprising, how the tumbling words from the emails to the friend slid into the cabinet where the dissertation brain sat, and when it bumped the shelf, down fell the academic brain in musty heap, all scattershot, like when that cookbook you took from your grandma's house slips from the ledge in the kitchen, and suddenly there are letters and notecards and torn magazine pages and a Cool-Whip coupon that expired in March of 1982, all over your kitchen floor. Roughly that cohesive, but also roughly that interesting.
So the emails became diss writing, and now the diss writing has led me back here. The last post I wrote was a draft from January of this year, and strangely, the feelings all still fit, all of them. So, no personal growth in five-ish months? Guess not.