(no subject)
I have filled three notebooks this year in mental hospitals. Large portions of them are rewrites of ideas that were already retreads -- simply things to pass the time. Larger portions yet are pointless transcription or stat-mongering: records of Scrabble games, diagrams of Connect 4, game theory diagrams and charts. I was calmer when I had a pen in hand, so there was a lot of that -- there was a lot of writing that simply precipitated other writing, all for the sake of itself.
Sometimes, though, there is writing; whether it be poetry, suicide notes, last wills and testaments -- something written not to write it, but to satisfy me, a person. A lot of the same images and topics come up, time after time after time. They get written about, and rewritten about, but honestly I never talk about them to anyone, and I never share those writings -- because they're terrible. I can't figure out how to write about some of these images.
This bothers me. I desperately want to be able to paint the picture of my most beautiful moments for the rest of the world, but those are the few things I can't at all do justice. I've ghostwritten for newsletters, for articles -- I've been quoted on national television networks, and I did work for a newspaper at one point in my life. I've written fiction and received acclamation for that; heck, I've written fanfiction which received such soaring acclamation I swept an awards festival and have a trophy to show for it.
But the things that are most important to me -- I can't write worth shit about.
I just now tried to overcome that, by writing about one such event -- a box of wigs, spring 2005, a chair under a doorknob, and an awkward comment that would follow me for the rest of my life -- but an hour later I'm not at all satisfied so I'm scrapping it.
Exactly what I was talking about.
Sometimes, though, there is writing; whether it be poetry, suicide notes, last wills and testaments -- something written not to write it, but to satisfy me, a person. A lot of the same images and topics come up, time after time after time. They get written about, and rewritten about, but honestly I never talk about them to anyone, and I never share those writings -- because they're terrible. I can't figure out how to write about some of these images.
This bothers me. I desperately want to be able to paint the picture of my most beautiful moments for the rest of the world, but those are the few things I can't at all do justice. I've ghostwritten for newsletters, for articles -- I've been quoted on national television networks, and I did work for a newspaper at one point in my life. I've written fiction and received acclamation for that; heck, I've written fanfiction which received such soaring acclamation I swept an awards festival and have a trophy to show for it.
But the things that are most important to me -- I can't write worth shit about.
I just now tried to overcome that, by writing about one such event -- a box of wigs, spring 2005, a chair under a doorknob, and an awkward comment that would follow me for the rest of my life -- but an hour later I'm not at all satisfied so I'm scrapping it.
Exactly what I was talking about.