Taking Notes

When I decided to begin blogging, I purchased a simple desk calendar.  During the first few days, I felt as though I had hundreds of post ideas.  Naturally I couldn’t do them all right away; one hundred posts would take a little while to write out, and probably should be spread out over at least a couple weeks.  I didn’t want to post on one topic exclusively, and then run out of ideas for that topic later.  Early readers would count on my consistent discussions on that one topic that I might discuss extensively for a few days and then never mention again.  I knew I would need some form of organization, and I might as well start off that way.

So I opened my little book and I jotted down a few titles.  I tried to stagger the topics; no more than one introspective piece, one exercise piece, or one creative bragging piece a week. This would keep topics from pooling, and it could help to force me to think a little harder on a topic if I didn’t have anything to say that week.  The initial jotting down gave me a decently full schedule for the first month, with a few stragglers moving into the next month.  When something delayed a scheduled post, I could simply slip it in the next available slot.   It seemed like it would work well, and if I tried to keep a plan at least two weeks out, I wouldn’t sit in front of my computer in the morning with absolutely no inspiration. 

This morning, unfortunately, proved that the plan is not fool proof.  I sat down, knowing I had a post scheduled.  I opened my book, and looked at the title. 

Image

Stretching.  Hmm.  Stretching.  I waited for the memory of the post to return to me. 

Stretching.  It is not uncommon for me to plan something running related on Wednesdays.  Stretching.  I have faded a little away on stretching my muscles during a cool down.  This was one of my foot pain theories. 

Stretching.  I have felt a little stretched thin lately.  Writing, editing, sending letters, schoolwork, housework, family, and frequent trips to the Laundromat.  Maybe I meant to write about stretching past my limits? 

Stretching.  Stretching.  I do get a little jealous when I watch my dog stretch.  She seems to achieve a deep, full body, satisfying stretch the moment she gets up from her frequent naps.  Stretching.

Stretching.  It almost doesn’t even look like a real word anymore.  Stretching.  Maybe I am stretching the English language when I write?

Unfortunately nothing seems to be triggering the original idea.  I honestly have no idea what I meant to write.  It could have been a deep and insightful commentary on modern life.  It could have been a silly thought equating motherhood to the necessity of stretching into many roles.  I really have no idea.  I suppose this is why they tell writers to never go anywhere without a notebook; take notes on everything, because you will not remember as well as you think you will. 

Someday it might come back to me.  I will be sitting in a waiting room, or driving to the store, maybe lying in bed, and stretching will suddenly make perfect sense.  Next time, I think I’m going to write it down better.  Or maybe, the idea of learning from my mistakes is where I am stretching.  Hmm.  Stretching. 

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