Hello.This is only a test. A test to be sure the "publish post" button still works.
There are three entries swimming around in my head, begging to be written. But the time isn't there. It takes hours to coax the words out of my head, finesse each sentence into something I'm comfortable publishing. A perfectionist's work is never done.
I have been writing, a little. I did a guest post for SpinSucks.com, a PR blog for the company Arment Dietrich, and I recently finished another piece for DishKebab.com, a food blog for the Rewards Network. It's not the same, obviously.
But life takes precedence. Oh, if writing truly could become my life. …Some day. Maybe.
I love to move along at a clip, yes, but the running headless chicken routine has never been a good look for me. That's where I've been these past few weeks. I'm mostly moved into the new place, though it doesn't feel like home. It will, but it doesn't yet. It still smells like new floors and industrial cleaning supplies, despite hot and heavy scented-candle warfare and a one-night cookie-baking détente. Time, it would seem, is the only cure.
As it is for most things.
The guaranteed passage of this slow healer, time, keeps me sane in the chaos I've created for myself. A packed schedule is a cushion of sorts. Dinner reservations, doctor's appointments, bike rides from my front gate to the signpost where I lock it up outside the train station and back again. Though too many cushions in a room can start to make it look like a cell in a mental institution… Twenty-four hours after the moving truck pulled away from my new building, I started packing for my trip to central Florida, where I spent the better part of last week for work. I returned home to a lusciously long — possibly even languorous — holiday weekend. On Sunday, I turn around and leave again, this time for Columbus. The light at the end of this tunnel, I keep telling myself, is a four-day weekend in New York City. It will be the first time I've visited in more than two years, and I'll be there during Restaurant Week. I'll hit the ground running and stop only to eat. Seeing old friends, spending ungodly amounts of money on food, walking the length of Manhattan. Flea-marketing in Brooklyn, a new coin purse at the Pearl River Mart, dishes at Fish's Eddy, window-drooling at ABC Carpet & Home.
A girl can hope for a clear enough head to start letting these entries out soon, one by one, but I'm not holding my breath. Time marches on.