Identity
Neil Gaiman has out a new book of short stories, which Hilary received for Christmas. I sat down tonight and read the introduction. My first thought, just a few sentences in, was "Neil Gaiman makes me want to be a writer."
I remember when I was a writer. Not one of any renown, certainly. A few pieces of mildly-regarded fanfic and some original ideas squirrled away somewhere was all had to my name. But I was stringing words together and making something.
I remember when I wanted to be an artist. My parents still think I am one, as evidenced by their generous gift of the Wacom. I have a few halfhearted paintings around the apartment.
Hnh. My point on this whole thing seemed much clearer when the vapid insipidity that is 'Friends' wasn't on the TV.
I think the point was something along the lines of, "I wonder who I am, underneath all this artifice?" Who would I be with all my affectations stripped away? I wonder sometimes if David isn't trying (deliberately or otherwise) to help me find out.
Here I am, ticka-typing away on this amazing machine that connects me to so many people, that can help me reach so many people... And all I ever do is silently watch everyone else, to see who they are.
Seems a shame, doesn't it?
I think at heart, the problem remains that I just don't have anything to say, anything to share.
Except that sometimes I think that I might.
I sort of feel like time is running out for me to figure it out. Vague sense of lost time and all that.
Writer? Painter? Or just a corporate wage earner who dreams of a meaningful life?
Let this be a lesson to you, kids. Do something meaningful in college before its too late.
I remember when I was a writer. Not one of any renown, certainly. A few pieces of mildly-regarded fanfic and some original ideas squirrled away somewhere was all had to my name. But I was stringing words together and making something.
I remember when I wanted to be an artist. My parents still think I am one, as evidenced by their generous gift of the Wacom. I have a few halfhearted paintings around the apartment.
Hnh. My point on this whole thing seemed much clearer when the vapid insipidity that is 'Friends' wasn't on the TV.
I think the point was something along the lines of, "I wonder who I am, underneath all this artifice?" Who would I be with all my affectations stripped away? I wonder sometimes if David isn't trying (deliberately or otherwise) to help me find out.
Here I am, ticka-typing away on this amazing machine that connects me to so many people, that can help me reach so many people... And all I ever do is silently watch everyone else, to see who they are.
Seems a shame, doesn't it?
I think at heart, the problem remains that I just don't have anything to say, anything to share.
Except that sometimes I think that I might.
I sort of feel like time is running out for me to figure it out. Vague sense of lost time and all that.
Writer? Painter? Or just a corporate wage earner who dreams of a meaningful life?
Let this be a lesson to you, kids. Do something meaningful in college before its too late.