i try not to write so much. i meditate. i go for rides. i like people, and i like listening, so i socialize. i help out as much as i can with out of the cold, the community gardens, share, etc. i do non-writing things, like play chess and explore my family’s genealogy. i’ve become a one-handed, one-fingered typist which slows me down (tho dictation by choosing one letter at a time with a left-eye-only blink–like jean-dominique bauby, author of the diving bell and the butterfly, was forced to use–is much slower).
but i like writing and right now i still have a lot of time on my hands, so i end up writing a lot. writing for me is therapeutic; it’s creative. it suits my disability and provides an organization and a clarity which my brain injury and my speech impediment murkify. writing provides what glenn gould called ‘take-two-ness’. this is my public diary, my journal; writing is my legacy, to readers unknown, to my loved ones; you love me, don’t you? (if so, sign up.)
besides, i have noisy neighbours and i try to sleep with a snorey dog and my ears ring–so i have insomnia, and writing, internet radio, and headphones are a good antidote; so are stamina and being a natural born night owl. but when i run out of steam, or when i get down, i find solace in others’ words, some of which i record as quotes.