I used to measure seconds in the terms that all 86,400 seconds of each and every day counted. I needed to not waste a single one. Then, over 44 million seconds ago, the world changed. And my feeling towards seconds did too. Now, seconds feel heavy. They feel more like the weight the world has felt over the past eighteen months, even though they're still finite and it's the one thing that is equal amongst us all.
Over the last 45,100,800 seconds, I have not published much on here and haven't worked on lengthy stories or books. I have written, but my preferred style is with a pen and a paper and I share only with some of my online writing groups. My brain is scattered and I am currently not in a great writing routine.
I know that if I could find 600 seconds, only ten minutes, to write each day, I would likely find it hard to stop writing. But sadly, I don't do this. I may start again as we settle back into the routine of school — and I may not. I am okay with either one of these outcomes.
We've lived what feels like it should have been 1,000,000,000,000 seconds in the last eighteen months. And my husband very realistically (but not very popularly) points out that we may have another 45,000,000 seconds to go before we see the end of the pandemic, which makes me groan. Therefore, I think I can give myself some grace and be kind to myself — recognizing that although I love to write, right now may not be a season for me where I am devoting 18,000+ seconds per week to writing.