Too Busy Writing to Write

I claim to like writing.  It's one of the reasons I started this blog.  In fact, that single claim drives several reasons I started this blog.

1. I enjoy the process of writing.  Create or develop a thought.  Figure out how to express it.  Craft the expression.  Refine, revise, and publish.  It's rewarding, in and of itself.
2. I like the idea of my written thoughts affecting the people who read them.  It's part of my "ego" if such a thing can be said to truly exist.  So, in that sense, I enjoy the potential result of my writing, rather than the writing itself, but it contributes to the reasons I like to blog.
3. Finally, if one wants to be a writer, or thinks one does, one is told over and over again that one must write.  So, blogging "forces" me to write, which supposedly will help if I ever really truly want to write something more substantial.  (Mike keeps encouraging me to.  I resist.  Different topic.)

The problem, of course, is that I don't write.  Or, perhaps more to the point, I don't Write, with a capital W.  I find it hard, in fact, to write this blog as frequently as I used to.

But see, the thing is, my reason for not writing is not a lack of writing.  It is, in fact, the opposite.  I write so much that I just can't write any more.

My primary means of communicating my ideas these days seems to be through writing.  It's just not the kind of writing which goes here.  It's business.  It's e-mail.  And it's freaking constant.   Sometimes I tell people how much e-mail I get on an average day -- not including spam or notes which I can just delete. I tell them 100 per day.  That's the number I am expected to read to handle in some way. Some people are incredulous.  A few try to top me, without thinking about what it means.  And, yes, a few can top me, for real.  (Alison, my friend, I do not envy you.)

Calculate that out over an 8 hour day.  (Yes, yes, I know.  8?  Bear with me.) That's reading and dealing with each e-mail in under five minutes, if I do absolutely nothing else.   Adding in instant messaging (which is the primary means for a large percentage of communications today) would make the numbers worse.  But let's not muddy the waters. [A short aside: if you do NOT treat writing instant messages as you would treat writing an e-mail, I can practically guarantee you that you will make a mess of something, often without realizing it.  And if you don't treat writing an e-mail as you would treat writing a short article, you are inviting trouble, as well.]

Let's suppose I have to reply to only 25% of the "real" e-mails I receive.  This is probably low, but let's start there.  That means I am writing an e-mail every 20 minutes, while reading 4.  This means I am in an almost constant state of reading and then writing.  And that's just from e-mail! I do far more than just e-mail, but I still have to get that e-mail done, among the other writing and non-writing I do each day.

Is it any wonder my mind and fingers are tired of writing by the time I set myself to the task of blogging here?

Sometimes I think if I took a sabbatical and did manual labor 8 hours a day for a couple of months, though my body would be worn out at the end of a work day, my mind and fingers would be itching to write.  Because, strangely enough, I do get some of the enjoyment of Writing from the e-mail writing I do.  I have to develop a thought, figure out how to express it, craft, revise, refine and SEND in the very few minutes I have.  It's like sprinting, all day long.  And yet, I seem to enjoy it.  So if I spent a few weeks with work days which did not include writing, I suspect I would crave it.

This post borders on talking about work.  But not really.  I suspect many people in today's world are set upon by very similar issues.  Being able to communicate well through writing is a skill, and I can assure you that it is a very valuable skill.  Those of us who have the skill often find ourselves in jobs where we are required to use that skill for much of our work day.   And that leaves some of us, well, at least ONE of us, a tad unmotivated when it comes time to face some Real Writing.

This is not whining.  It's not even an excuse.  It's therapy.  It's introspection, disguised as a wordy essay. 

And it has kept me up past midnight.  Time to get to bed.

I have e-mail waiting for me in the morning.