It's been two months to the day since my last post. I largely blame the World Cup, which was truly enthralling - the best I've seen - but I also admit that I got lazy and lost momentum.
Writing is hard. It's easy to forget, but writing - especially writing first drafts - is really, really hard. I can't slip writing into my interstitial time the way I can with reading, and with a baby, most free time is interstitial, and fleetingly so. Writing is also far more public, far more exposed, and thus far more intimidating than reading, which is a very private act.
So I have been reading, but not writing, and I'm committing to getting back to writing. I'm almost through The Souls of Black Folk, and I inhaled The Fire Next Time, and I'm about to start David Correia's Properties of Violence and Houria Bouteldja's Whites, Jews, and Us: Toward a Politics of Revolutionary Love. Between these four books, I should have plenty to write about in the coming weeks - and I'm looking forward to it.