(no subject)
I can't sleep, and I've become a writer overnight. (I've also written something this weekend that I'm considering submitting to an anthology.)
No, I'm not really sure what's wrong with me, either. I had an interesting (weird) conversation at work on Friday evening with the woman who (was) is supposed to be taking my boss' position. She said a lot of things that made sense, but also kind of pointed me in a different direction than I'd all but decided to go in not two days earlier. These last two weeks have just felt like the world was moving much, much too fast...maybe that's what's leading to this sudden need to express (to communicate).
And before that conversation Friday I realized that I started at Juilliard more than 15 years ago, more than half a lifetime ago, far enough back that I just don't remember a good part of it. I feel a little bit as though if I was ever going to write about that time, about my teenage years or what have you, it needs to happen soon -- now, ideally -- so that I don't forget any more than has already been lost. But to do that, I need to sit down and search my soul and find the confidence in both my writing abilities AND the idea that even if what I end up writing isn't ultimately the complete and utter facts of what happened in those days, it'll still be okay. I can't seem to move past the idea that a memoir is useless unless it's 100% factual, and of course that's not true, but all of the memoir scandals of late make it all that much dangerous a realm to enter.
And besides, what of my youth is more significant, more interesting, than anyone else's? I had no drug addiction, no horrific trauma, to analyze and deconstruct. I was a middling prodigy; I came out quietly. I lived a youth of quiet desperation, with the potential and desire to accomplish anything and nothing. Isn't it arrogant to think that my experience is worth so much as a moment of consideration?
.....and I've lost steam. It's almost 2am and I need to at least try to get some sleep for the week ahead. For the record, I have no idea how I'm going to get through this next month or so of work. I'm exhausted and I'm drained and most of the time, I've just lost any and all interest in being a member of humanity, let alone the corporate vacuum of souls. I want to just get in my car and run far, far away -- and I would, if the next few weeks weren't set to be beyond hellish. Maybe I'll take a day next week and head up to Sherwood Island again. That could be nice. And of course, if I survive, there's always the light of Noho and Linds again just a few short weeks away. If I survive.
No, I'm not really sure what's wrong with me, either. I had an interesting (weird) conversation at work on Friday evening with the woman who (was) is supposed to be taking my boss' position. She said a lot of things that made sense, but also kind of pointed me in a different direction than I'd all but decided to go in not two days earlier. These last two weeks have just felt like the world was moving much, much too fast...maybe that's what's leading to this sudden need to express (to communicate).
And before that conversation Friday I realized that I started at Juilliard more than 15 years ago, more than half a lifetime ago, far enough back that I just don't remember a good part of it. I feel a little bit as though if I was ever going to write about that time, about my teenage years or what have you, it needs to happen soon -- now, ideally -- so that I don't forget any more than has already been lost. But to do that, I need to sit down and search my soul and find the confidence in both my writing abilities AND the idea that even if what I end up writing isn't ultimately the complete and utter facts of what happened in those days, it'll still be okay. I can't seem to move past the idea that a memoir is useless unless it's 100% factual, and of course that's not true, but all of the memoir scandals of late make it all that much dangerous a realm to enter.
And besides, what of my youth is more significant, more interesting, than anyone else's? I had no drug addiction, no horrific trauma, to analyze and deconstruct. I was a middling prodigy; I came out quietly. I lived a youth of quiet desperation, with the potential and desire to accomplish anything and nothing. Isn't it arrogant to think that my experience is worth so much as a moment of consideration?
.....and I've lost steam. It's almost 2am and I need to at least try to get some sleep for the week ahead. For the record, I have no idea how I'm going to get through this next month or so of work. I'm exhausted and I'm drained and most of the time, I've just lost any and all interest in being a member of humanity, let alone the corporate vacuum of souls. I want to just get in my car and run far, far away -- and I would, if the next few weeks weren't set to be beyond hellish. Maybe I'll take a day next week and head up to Sherwood Island again. That could be nice. And of course, if I survive, there's always the light of Noho and Linds again just a few short weeks away. If I survive.