I had every intention of coming to Rome and writing my heart out. I brought my editorial calendar and a list of 23 posts to complete. I rented an apartment that had the air of a writer's retreat, nestled in the heart of the artistic community. I even brought clothes I imagined would be conducive to writing and envisioned me in that apartment in that community in those special writing clothes, hair pulled into a chignon, caffè macchiato in hand, churning out my most inspired writing.
And then I got here. And then I realized that I had not come to produce. I had come to be produced.
So much has happened in such short of a time that I can't even begin. Nothing monumental or tragic or drastic or dramatic. But so many things, and so very fast. Things that I'm not processing or even able to process. Not now, not yet. It's still pixelated, incomprehensible little parts of a story. What happens when you stop your life as you know it in a place that makes you feel both infitesimal and larger than life at the same time.
This is all a fancy way of saying I haven't written a fucking thing in 5 weeks, and I probably won't for another two, but that I will be back, and soon, and with better material, perspective, and gusto than I would have had I holed myself up in an apartment in Rome to write about life, instead of experiencing it on full blast.
See you soon.
