It’s been awhile since I’ve checked in here. I could make a thousand excuses. I also read once that it’s not good to begin a blog this way, because if this is the first post people read on their first visit, it turns them off to see, “It’s been awhile since I’ve checked in here.”
Life has been busy for me lately, but in mostly positive ways.
I’m working in marketing part-time, writing for a magazine part-time, and teaching two theatre classes a week. I’m also maintaining a social life, remembering to paint my nails because I’m a lady, and read for pleasure instead of work.
However, I don’t feel like I’m doing enough.
One of those things being writing. I don’t write enough.
I’m currently reading Lauren Graham’s “Talking as Fast as I Can,” and aside from absolutely adoring it because I absolutely adore her, I’m also learning a lot and being in inspired by every page I read.
One chapter, in particular, talks about the kitchen timer method.
This has nothing to do with remembering to take the veggies out of the oven that you’re cooking, but if it did, it might have helped me to not burn the broccoli I was ~*oven-roasting*~ but I digress.
The Kitchen Timer Method is a method for writers to simply get shit done.
Because we’re procrastinators.
And we open up our Word Docs, or empty blog posts, or blank journals and we stare at it and nothing comes.
And then we create a holiday image on Canva.com for the theatre company we work for “Wishing you a Happy Holidays from us to you!”
It’s a mess.
Lauren explains that the Kitchen Timer Method is simple.
Every single day, you set a goal to write. You don’t set a goal on what to write, you just set a goal to write, and you write.
So, let’s say, for example, that Monday-Friday your goal is to write for one uninterrupted hour and then you’re done for the day! Ample time to make Canva images, paint your nails, and do a million other things that you said yes to!
You set your kitchen timer for 60 minutes. Any timer. Phone timer. Whatever. Set it for 60 minutes, put your phone away, turn of your Wifi, and write.
If you’re working on a writing project, write for it. If you’re burnt out on that, turn to your journal and free write, until you get so bored with free writing that you move back to your project, and so on and so forth until your timer tells you to stop.
And you do this every single day.
The time may change to half an hour on weekends, twenty minutes while your SO walks the dog, whatever…
But as long as you set this goal, you can never again say that you don’t have time to work on something.
I’m kind of doing that now, and all of this just poured out. I’m waiting on my editor from the magazine to meet me for coffee at a place in Old Town called Misha’s.
They’re playing instrumental music to set the tone.
What is the tone of a coffee shop anyway?
Sexy, caffeinated creative type tone?
If AIM were still a thing, should that be my username? Sexy Caffeinated Creative?
There are a million and one things I want to do with my life, and sometimes I need to remember that there is time to do them, despite what I might think.
There is no timeline. I think the only timeline that might exist is my Having Babies Timeline (HBT, not to be confused with Heckyesi Bought Tacos), because there is a clock there, and it does tick. Thankfully, for me, the time is set to longer than sixty minutes from now.
But I’ve wanted to travel to Ireland and I did it.
I’ve wanted to write for a magazine, and I’m doing it.
I wanted to fall in love, and I have.
I’ve wanted to feel independent, and I do.
There are a multitude of things left that I want to do, so I guess I need to start them, right? I need to set a timer?
One of the things I’ve always wanted is to be a published author. I guess you could say I’m published by way of my blog, the magazine I write for, and the few blogs/websites I’ve contributed to.
But I want a book.
A book with the option for a hard cover if you feel like spending $7 more for that.
A book that’s beige and gold with a hint of pink and maybe black or a light blue.
With my face on it.
I’d probably be making a weird face.
Or my super serious sassy face.
The one that screams, “I’m not the type of girl you can catcall because I’LL END YOU.”
And you open it, and it reads “To all of those who said I could, so I did.”
Or “For my grandma who always said she’d see my name in lights,” and maybe my name on the front cover could be lit up like the bulbs around a fancy dressing room mirror.
Clearly, I have thought of this.
It would have chapters titled with hilarious-to-me things that only some people would understand.
“Is The Ladder too High?”
“My Love Affair With Coffee,” about how I nearly got fired from being a barista because I was such a truth-teller. This is the term I like to use instead of the word “bitch.”
“Chapter 12: What I Learned From Dating the Guy With Bird Legs”
“Chapter One: I Am My Mother’s Daughter”
Something like that.
My phone just lit up with a text. I’m not checking it! My timer hasn’t gone off! Look, Lauren, I’m following the rules!
“Chapter 8: Why I Hate Following Rules”
I could start this book anytime. As a matter of fact, I already have. But there’s this little voice in the back of my truth-telling mind that’s screaming, “Why would anyone buy your book? Who are you anyway?!”
But why me, you know?
What makes me special?
Why would you pick up my book and read it?
Why are you even reading this?
I actually would love to know. For real. Let me know.
Have my number? Shoot me a text and tell me what you read and why. If you read this blog, why?
Don’t have my number? Comment on this post! Or my social media! Send me a telegram! Wire me a message!
Any feedback would be great.
So that’s terrifying.
I guess the first step to admitting to the world that you’re a creative is admitting it to yourself first.
So, Kaitlyn, I’ve got news. You’re a creative. You are meant to create. You are meant to be your own boss. You are meant to entertain. You are probably meant to write a book or two or three, but you are too chicken at the moment, but hopefully one day soon, very soon, you will wake up and see that this is who you are and what you’re meant to do and you can no longer run and hide from it.
And when you open it, my book, it’ll also read, “To me, who said I could so I finally did.“