Why I rarely post in my journal
Interestingly, because I am able to post on message boards incessantly, spewing nonsense and having deep Harry Potter related conversations, I find it difficult to post at my own LJ. I don't really know why. Maybe I'm lazy. Maybe I'm busy. Or maybe I have some trouble putting my personal thoughts out here in a place where others can read them but they are mine alone. Here, it's just me.
I have my reasons for suspecting the latter might be the case. I've got priors on refusing to share my private thoughts with the public. I love to write. Always have. I've done it with varying degrees of efficacy for as long as I can remember. You know those little stories They would make us write at school when we were kids? The ones that we would bind in cardboard with fabric glued over it? I used to do what was assigned and then bring them home and tape more pages in and continue the story further, writing until the story was actually finished--not until I ran out of the allotted number of pages we were given for the project.
I always kept a diary--I still have my diary with it's little padlock on it that I used in late elementary school. It is still locked. Those were my most private thoughts.
I grew older and in junior high I took my first creative writing class. My teacher, Mr.Jones, was full of praise and encouragement, his only complaint the sticky erasable Papermate pens I wrote with. When we reached the poetry section of the class, we found that I had real talent. It was wonderful to let myself go in this medium, exploring my thoughts, playing with which words I would use and how I would place them for maximum impact. I kept writing poetry. Through the subsequent journalism class, writing for the school newspaper, completing writing assignments, I wrote poetry on the side. Not because I had to, but because I *had* to.
My freshman year of high school, I was filled with all the angst required to write really good poetry and I was rarely without a notebook. The times I left home without one, I would inevitably return home with a poem scrawled on a napkin in my pocket. I had a few friends that I would share these most private thoughts with, but not many. They came straight from my soul.
When my freshman year English class reached the poetry segment, I was at once thrilled and apprehensive. What if this teacher didn't think my poetry was any good? I knew that a few years prior, this teacher had managed to get another student's poetry published in a book of her own because she was that good. We ended up having a student teacher when we were writing poetry. I still remember her exact comment on one particularly heartfelt piece I handed in. She told me "Not many people can write in this choppy William Carlos Williams style and still communicate with beauty and grace. You do that."
I was really affected by that comment. Someone who didn't know me, wasn't related, had no reason or need to be appreciative of my work, gave me this thoughtful positive feedback. I promptly went to the library to find a book of William Carlos Williams' poetry because I had never read him before. I was ridiculously flattered that she would draw a comparison between us.
Flattered enough that when one of my close friends insisted I share my work with my teacher with the publishing connections, I decided to put my soul out there...on condition of anonymity.
I allowed my friend to take my notebook to this teacher but not tell him whose work it was. She brought it back to me a couple days later with a note from him, full of praise and saying that he thought my poems should be published. I was proud and appalled. While I appreciated that he thought that highly of my work, the thought of putting my private thoughts out there for everyone to read was just too much. At 14, you don't want to risk sharing a piece of your soul only to have some people think it is crap. I knew in that moment I couldn't do that. I couldn't share these words that had been pulled from my innermost feelings. I couldn't make myself vulnerable like that. As nice as it was to hear others praise my poetry, I knew I wouldn't be able to package it neatly in a book format and say to people, "Here have a look at my pain after I fought with my mother or the observations I made when I was high or the sadness I felt when I learned that the boy I was smitten with liked my best friend instead of me. Read all about what I was thinking the other night when my friend confided in me that he was contemplating suicide." It was all too personal, too raw, too *me*.
So I didn't accept the offer and have never sought publication of my poetry again. I've thought about putting some of my work up here and decided against it. Posting here makes me feel like the lock is off my diary and my soul is bared. So I very carefully choose the random musings to share here. Which is most likely the reason why I have so rarely posted.
hmmm, or it could be because I can't make a long story short. *see above post that was intended to be brief
I have my reasons for suspecting the latter might be the case. I've got priors on refusing to share my private thoughts with the public. I love to write. Always have. I've done it with varying degrees of efficacy for as long as I can remember. You know those little stories They would make us write at school when we were kids? The ones that we would bind in cardboard with fabric glued over it? I used to do what was assigned and then bring them home and tape more pages in and continue the story further, writing until the story was actually finished--not until I ran out of the allotted number of pages we were given for the project.
I always kept a diary--I still have my diary with it's little padlock on it that I used in late elementary school. It is still locked. Those were my most private thoughts.
I grew older and in junior high I took my first creative writing class. My teacher, Mr.Jones, was full of praise and encouragement, his only complaint the sticky erasable Papermate pens I wrote with. When we reached the poetry section of the class, we found that I had real talent. It was wonderful to let myself go in this medium, exploring my thoughts, playing with which words I would use and how I would place them for maximum impact. I kept writing poetry. Through the subsequent journalism class, writing for the school newspaper, completing writing assignments, I wrote poetry on the side. Not because I had to, but because I *had* to.
My freshman year of high school, I was filled with all the angst required to write really good poetry and I was rarely without a notebook. The times I left home without one, I would inevitably return home with a poem scrawled on a napkin in my pocket. I had a few friends that I would share these most private thoughts with, but not many. They came straight from my soul.
When my freshman year English class reached the poetry segment, I was at once thrilled and apprehensive. What if this teacher didn't think my poetry was any good? I knew that a few years prior, this teacher had managed to get another student's poetry published in a book of her own because she was that good. We ended up having a student teacher when we were writing poetry. I still remember her exact comment on one particularly heartfelt piece I handed in. She told me "Not many people can write in this choppy William Carlos Williams style and still communicate with beauty and grace. You do that."
I was really affected by that comment. Someone who didn't know me, wasn't related, had no reason or need to be appreciative of my work, gave me this thoughtful positive feedback. I promptly went to the library to find a book of William Carlos Williams' poetry because I had never read him before. I was ridiculously flattered that she would draw a comparison between us.
Flattered enough that when one of my close friends insisted I share my work with my teacher with the publishing connections, I decided to put my soul out there...on condition of anonymity.
I allowed my friend to take my notebook to this teacher but not tell him whose work it was. She brought it back to me a couple days later with a note from him, full of praise and saying that he thought my poems should be published. I was proud and appalled. While I appreciated that he thought that highly of my work, the thought of putting my private thoughts out there for everyone to read was just too much. At 14, you don't want to risk sharing a piece of your soul only to have some people think it is crap. I knew in that moment I couldn't do that. I couldn't share these words that had been pulled from my innermost feelings. I couldn't make myself vulnerable like that. As nice as it was to hear others praise my poetry, I knew I wouldn't be able to package it neatly in a book format and say to people, "Here have a look at my pain after I fought with my mother or the observations I made when I was high or the sadness I felt when I learned that the boy I was smitten with liked my best friend instead of me. Read all about what I was thinking the other night when my friend confided in me that he was contemplating suicide." It was all too personal, too raw, too *me*.
So I didn't accept the offer and have never sought publication of my poetry again. I've thought about putting some of my work up here and decided against it. Posting here makes me feel like the lock is off my diary and my soul is bared. So I very carefully choose the random musings to share here. Which is most likely the reason why I have so rarely posted.
hmmm, or it could be because I can't make a long story short. *see above post that was intended to be brief