word vomit
Dear Ciara,
I have a lot to say, but I can’t seem to string everything together cohesively. So, let this letter be utter word vomit. I hope you don’t mind.
I feel as though my recent letters haven’t been as authentic as they could have been. I don’t mean that what I am writing is fake, but I’ve been so busy with work that what I am writing doesn’t feel thoughtful or profound enough. It’s certainly not as poetic as I’d like. But this is the nature of life, the ebbs and the flows, times of quiet and times of rushing waters. I need to stop being so critical of myself. Dear Ciara is my space to experiment.
The Organist has been encouraging me to use less em dashes in my writing. I know I use them too much, and probably mostly incorrectly. They’re so present in the novels I read that I guess they’ve bled into my own writing. Problem is, AI software like ChatGPT appear to also use a lot of em dashes, and I don’t want my work to be mistaken for that. I’ll be honest, I am trying to be optimistic about AI, but I can feel humanity slipping away…
Another grey day yesterday. Antarctic winds turned the tropics strangely cool. I rugged myself up in a jacket at work, which I hardly ever do, and spent the whole daydreaming of bed. I’m always sniffly and sluggish in the cold weather. When I got home from work, I curled up on the couch and played way too much Minecraft for one evening.
My dwarf cosmos is pumping out red, orange and yellow flowers left, right and centre. Writing that sentence felt amazing.
Another rot day today. I’m feeling a bit unwell, but not enough to really justify the amount of time I spent in bed. I’m up now. Writing this. I have a meeting regarding my thesis later. I’ll put a load of washing on and pretend that counts as productivity.
The song for today is:
Manchild — Sabrina Carpenter
It’s the only thing motivating me out of bed today.
Love,
The Gardener