My writing habit/obsession

Just as I opened my laptop, I heard my husband moving in the hallway. There goes another quiet, all-by-myself, writing-on-the-sofa Saturday morning. I thought I got up early enough to get the writing done. I stayed in PJs, stretched and meditated shorter than usual, made myself a cup of Japanese green tea with fried rice, placed the cup on the coffee table, and seated myself comfortably in my favourite writing place. But then again, I still checked the news, scrolled on Instagram and Twitter, and read and commented on other blogs. Oh, well. It is what it is.

Usually on Saturdays when my husband gets up after me, I am the one who makes him two cups of French press coffee while he is in the bathroom turning from a zombie like sleep walker to a well groomed human.  I don't drink coffee myself, and making these two cups is the only way I know how to make coffee. I know that I have to use five teaspoons of coffee, pour water to a certain line in the glass coffee press, put the lid on and then wait before pressing it down. 

I won't make the coffee. I intend to get my writing done before breakfast.

I hazily remember that last night before falling asleep I had the post almost composed in my head. Did I write it down?  No. Do I remember now? No. My memory is as foggy as the view from outside. I know somewhere there is the sun, and it's up and about, how else could I sit here without turning on the lights. I know that somewhere my writing ideas are playing hide-and-seek, I can hear them chuckling with delight for their perfect hiding places and my inability to find them. 

"Eggs?" my husband peeks in from the living room door on his way from the bathroom to the kitchen.

"Yes, fried eggs are fine for breakfast," I answer my husband and I get distracted from what I was about to write. 

I know I wanted to say something about the my writing this week. Was there a bit of pride that I have been able to stick to writing daily this month? Very likely. The first week I was on holidays and had ample writing time. This week was a school week and my afternoons included a dance lesson, a writing course, an art exhibition, a peer group meeting, a theatre, and I still wrote. I even wrote yesterday evening when I was super tired.  

"The water boiled," my hubby calls from the kitchen.

"I made tea already," I holler back.

"I am sure it has gone cold," he says.

I can't help but burst into laughter.

"Why do you think that?" I inquire.

"If the water in the kettle was cold, your tea can't be much warmer either," he answers.

Yes, my tea has gone cold and I might make another cup. I'll try to get my writing done first. 

I have a nagging feeling that in my pre-sleep state I had an inner debate whether I truly have a healthy writing habit or is it more like an obsession. Can't remember which side won. This morning I seem to lean towards the obsession diagnosis. I think so because if I just had a writing habit I would write in my journal regularly, carry a notebook with me, compose short stories and poems, perhaps even try to get pieces published. This doesn't happen. Instead I make sure I post on my blog and then see whether anyone read it. I think it is the comments I am hooked to. Without deep therapy to analyse my motivation I suspect it might be connected to my need to be noticed and understood and accepted just as I am, and sharing myself digitally with people far from me might be easier than in person with the people who are in my every day life. 

"The eggs are ready," arrives an invitation from the kitchen.

It's nine thirty, the breakfast is ready, the fog has retreating and the sun streams in from the window straight at fifteen overly open tulips in a vase.

A quick photo. Add this to the post. A post written. Voila!