CLXI. The Writing Room -

I now have a library in my house. I have a place to put that nifty heavy-weight trinket made of metal that has molded pens gathered on top and an engraved quotation about how writers think and do.
Manhattan has some place called “The Writing Room,” where alcoholic beverages are imbibed, culinary repertories are primary and is thus reflected in the prices, and the vestiges of writers’ lore are solely reminiscent in decor.
There are now writers’ colonies - clubs in the city - that aforementioned borough - where one can burrow away in steadfast thoughts of fictional worlds or nonfictional memories, transcribed interviews, and creative expression.

My writing room, I believe, has always been in my mind. Now, it has shifted into the crevices of my inner being even more so. Maybe that shift is a result of my post-lowest weight daily Omega-3 and -6 overload from salmon, egg, and nut consumption.
Do I meditate? I was asked this earlier today. I replied that no I didn’t. Sure, I tried, however I’m too in my head to practice something so contrary to my being. Meditation is to produce a numbing sound and I always thrived on music. Meditation is like being in that scientifically-proven soundproofed room in which someone’s eardrums could burst because all that person hears is their blood vessels dilating and constricting, their blood flowing, and their heart thumping. It’s like hearing the annoying second-hand of a clock.

Is anyone out there though? Does anyone read this? I never cared as to the answer- as far as this blog is concerned. This platform was and is for me. Still, my writing in the pixelated public domain has catapulted me into social media abandon so that I’ve become familiar with skill sets not easily taught. It’s placed me into a social context both casually and professionally.
My posts have been a conversation starter more than I care to admit. It has been the source of family disturbance. It has opened the door for many an internship into the journalism world when I was starting out as a recent liberal arts graduate who was, up until then, a walking smorgasbord of politics, historical and sociological health practices, and premedical topics.

Now, however, my blog is no longer a recreational indulgence that I once found myself fully engrossed in while on campus. I never felt more like a millennial, intellectual, Ivy League- attending student, like the fictional character, Rory Gilmore, than when I blogged. This fortuitous venture just happened to coincide with my last year of college.

I would have the urge to blog about something altogether different than that last post I wrote, immediately after having published it. I had to pace myself. I needed to engage in the self-discipline of not having my readers, my peers, be sick of consecutive posts. Also, I needed to actually finish coursework.

I used to occupy my free time not spent walking to and from classes, or criss-crossing campus for dance practice, by sitting down in a campus cafe. I would settle down, no longer toting around my laptop, and sip on a latte in hand whilst writing on this blog.

Now I blog on-the-go. Right now I am typing on my iPhone’s notepad feature whilst walking around my empty house. I don’t dance anymore. I don’t burn energy at all.
Clearly, every topic that my blog posts of late promise to adhere to, eventually end up at the same place - I’ve been diagnosed with anorexia. I’m not allowed to burn calories and even if I had the chance to engage in cardio, I am too true to myself to do it when I know I have to pack on pounds.

Back to my writing and the question, does anyone read this? I have been transparent and made it quite clear that I am no longer the chirpy, curly-haired, voluminous-facial-cheek possessing, Indian music-loving girl who would order the foods she loved without measuring and without a clue as to the calorie count. In fact, this saddening (at least to me) fact has been plastered all over my Facebook wall. I don’t tweet about my published posts upon them going live nor do I have a public Instagram account. Still, this blog is listed on my resume, in my Twitter profile, on my publicly viewed LinkedIn profile, and is listed as a caption to more than one public Facebook profile picture.

That said, my friends and the people who have had direct access to my new blog posts are unaware of what I am writing about- of my current state of being. I find myself having to explain to them why I ordered my entree with appetizers and am eating before they ever receive their own course.

“My blog,” I say. “Have you read it?” I ask as a preface to telling them about my temporarily new self.

Why should I expect them to read it? Is it because they used to? Is it because acquaintances have mentioned that they read my blog or that I have received maybe a couple of direct messages sent to me from a friend of a friend who happened upon my blog and enjoyed reading it?

Perhaps this temporarily new me is also a different writer than before. Prose has definitely replaced the more poetic language I once used. Humor is dark as opposed to quirky.

I have noticed this too.