Journals & Writing
The stereotype for a blog (and specifically a LiveJournal) is the post that shows up every 8-10 months, lamenting that they haven't written in ages and oh how embarrassing that is. And then nothing else for another 8-10 months.
As I do not enjoy being a stereotype, I made sure to get a couple of actual entries in before committing the sin of writing about writing. (Insert snark here.)
It is something strange. I wrote in my old journal from 2001-2007, then retired it shortly after I moved to London. I then created a mostly-private journal that I only opened to a very select few after a couple of months. I've been debating opening up parts of it for some time now - if nothing else, it fairly well documented large parts of the experience I had there - but what was most impressive, to me, was the diligence with which I wrote.
I started writing in it on November 14, and then continued writing in it. Every day. Every damn day! Well, this isn't strictly true; there are days I would miss writing in it, due either to procrastination or a hectic schedule ... but I would then make sure to write about two things the next day, and back-date one of them to the day before. My journal had a calendar in its sidebar, as many LJs do, and I really enjoyed seeing every single day ticked off. Once I missed 5 days in a row, and I had to spend an entire day writing. That was both draining and really friggin' cool.
I originally intended to do it for one month. Just to see if I could. Just to see what that whole "Write every day" thing felt like. (Answer: It felt like work. Hard as hell, but commensurately satisfying.) But from November 14 through March 13, I missed only three days in January. And that was it.
The past year and a half that I've been back in Chicago has been a surprise in many ways: some enjoyable, some less. The extent to which I became involved in theatre this past year represented portions of both; while I've enjoyed taking part in nearly a dozen productions, both large and small, it took up so much of my time that I had little - or, for long stretches, no - time for anyone or anything else. And, along with close friends, the biggest casualty was writing.
Having had time to myself again for the past few months, I have continued to feel the itch, and hope to be able to scratch it, regularly, in a way that I can once again be proud of. It's something I still have to figure out the right balance for: Not only do I now have less time in my life in general, but time spent journalling about current thoughts or experiences takes away time available for fiction, and other writing projects. Not to mention, oh, the desire to properly maintain relationships and the barest semblance of a social life. (And I'd sure love to get back to drawing at some point....)
Fortunately, I'm meeting more and more writers, which helps to inspire. From playwrights to bloggers to several friends who are actively participating in this year's NaNoWriMo, I'm seeing more people put their damn words together in a way that impresses and uplifts me. I still don't know what my writing space will look like, as I start to wade back into it - but I'm hopeful, and eager to see.
But one favor I have to ask: If it's another 8-10 months until I write something? Please, someone, kick me in the head.
As I do not enjoy being a stereotype, I made sure to get a couple of actual entries in before committing the sin of writing about writing. (Insert snark here.)
It is something strange. I wrote in my old journal from 2001-2007, then retired it shortly after I moved to London. I then created a mostly-private journal that I only opened to a very select few after a couple of months. I've been debating opening up parts of it for some time now - if nothing else, it fairly well documented large parts of the experience I had there - but what was most impressive, to me, was the diligence with which I wrote.
I started writing in it on November 14, and then continued writing in it. Every day. Every damn day! Well, this isn't strictly true; there are days I would miss writing in it, due either to procrastination or a hectic schedule ... but I would then make sure to write about two things the next day, and back-date one of them to the day before. My journal had a calendar in its sidebar, as many LJs do, and I really enjoyed seeing every single day ticked off. Once I missed 5 days in a row, and I had to spend an entire day writing. That was both draining and really friggin' cool.
I originally intended to do it for one month. Just to see if I could. Just to see what that whole "Write every day" thing felt like. (Answer: It felt like work. Hard as hell, but commensurately satisfying.) But from November 14 through March 13, I missed only three days in January. And that was it.
The past year and a half that I've been back in Chicago has been a surprise in many ways: some enjoyable, some less. The extent to which I became involved in theatre this past year represented portions of both; while I've enjoyed taking part in nearly a dozen productions, both large and small, it took up so much of my time that I had little - or, for long stretches, no - time for anyone or anything else. And, along with close friends, the biggest casualty was writing.
Having had time to myself again for the past few months, I have continued to feel the itch, and hope to be able to scratch it, regularly, in a way that I can once again be proud of. It's something I still have to figure out the right balance for: Not only do I now have less time in my life in general, but time spent journalling about current thoughts or experiences takes away time available for fiction, and other writing projects. Not to mention, oh, the desire to properly maintain relationships and the barest semblance of a social life. (And I'd sure love to get back to drawing at some point....)
Fortunately, I'm meeting more and more writers, which helps to inspire. From playwrights to bloggers to several friends who are actively participating in this year's NaNoWriMo, I'm seeing more people put their damn words together in a way that impresses and uplifts me. I still don't know what my writing space will look like, as I start to wade back into it - but I'm hopeful, and eager to see.
But one favor I have to ask: If it's another 8-10 months until I write something? Please, someone, kick me in the head.