Randomness
Just come random things I jotted down in my notebook today.
- Where is the place in the world for the woman without means who wants to write? Is there some unwritten rule that you must be a WASP to be a woman writer (the exception, of course, being traumatic, poverty-stricken minority writers that make those in better situations feel "worldly" and "humanitarian" when they read them)? I would love to think we've come a long way since Virginia Woolf, but does the old adage hold true? Must one truly have money and a room of her own to write? If I had the free time and money to manufacture experiences for myself, I could write about them too, you know. But alas, I must work to live, and I'm working on my education full-time, so this does not leave me with a lot of time to live to write.
- Living Bipolar
I feel my ups and downs. Well, it would be more accurate to say that I feel my mood shift; I'm not always sure whether it's mania or depression afflicting me at any given moment.
I wish I had some sort of profound advice to offer on the subject; some enlightened revelation to offer to the masses that share my "disorder," but I have no such thing to give. I can offer no solace for those searching; I can barely cope myself.
I'm not even always convinced I am bipolar, or that bipolar even exists. My boyfriend calls this "denial." I call this a "healthy self-evaluation." If I don't study and contemplate myself sometimes, how can I ever hope to know myself?
- Maybe this is the key. Maybe just write about bipolar and then edit it all into a cohesive piece? My moods seem to be a recurring theme in my random scribbles.
- I need to learn to write poetry. Maybe that can be my (belated) New Year's resolution.
- Maybe I should work towards a slppy divorce in my 30s so I can write a novel about "finding myself." That seems to be book-selling GOLD.