(no subject)
I'm starting now with my new resolution of writing in here semi-consistently again. I need to remember that I do this for my own sake, because I am so forgetful. Socrates was right: writing things down makes your memory lazy. When I think back on this year, I wonder, "Where was I? What was I doing every day? What was I thinking?" And the journal is not there to tell me. It's unfortunate that the times I get too caught up in experience to write it all down are often the times I want to remember most. My entries are sparse when I'm in Greece, when I'm in love, when I'm carving out a new life for myself. I've lost the rawness of these experiences now, and I regret that.
Also, I am just plain miserable when I don't write. Those of you who know me only through this journal have an infinitely better view of me than people who only meet me in person. In writing, I am so much more eloquent and interesting. In person I stutter, struggle to make eye contact, possess a truly dreadful sense of timing; all of these are getting better with time, but slowly. I can't stand being that person all the time. When I can't write, it's difficult to share my inner self or my thoughts, and I exhaust myself trying.
I think it's this that has worn me down most of all. When I go to my job, my employer knows that I am smart, because she read it on my resume, because of what I set down on paper, but I would be the first to admit that I give little evidence of my intelligence in my day to day work for her. There are many forms of intelligence that I simply do not have. My body is inefficient and constantly off-kilter. As a form of communication, my mouth is hopelessly slow and inaccurate, and my tone of voice only makes things worse. My hands are clumsy, incapable of producing much except when they're holding a pen or poised over a keyboard. I am surrounded by people who judge themselves on what they do with their bodies and what they make with their hands, but that isn't me and it may never be.
Little things are bringing home to me that writing is what I was meant to do. I started a series of stories for Buzzy for Christmas, just a little something to amuse her. Things got a little out of hand, and over the course of a couple of weekends I wrote over 15,000 words. The stories aren't any good, of course, nor was I trying to make them good. I'd never share them with anyone but my friends. But I shocked myself with how easily I wrote so much. I didn't even realize I was doing it. And every essay I ever wrote for school was like that: tossed off without too much thought, just writing, because that is what I do. And almost without exception, my teachers praised them to the skies.
The thing is, I need to find something to write about. The process of writing isn't hard for me. It always takes far more time to come up with an idea, and most of the ideas I come up with either seem overly didactic or completely uninteresting. Who outside of my immediate circle wants to hear about my family (okay, there are some good stories about my dad if I knew how to do them justice) or my little struggles with religion? Maybe I just need to write a lot of stuff and sift through the stupidity. The problem is, as always, time. Or maybe it's just my own impatience, my yearning to get to the good part already.
Also, as far as trying to write for a living, I have had enough instability and rejection lately. I wish I were economically in a situation where I could feel secure enough to write on the side (well, there's always living off of the parental figures in my life, but my pride won't let me give up on supporting myself yet). Maybe next year my day job will suck up less of my time and energy. Or maybe all that is just another excuse and I need to resign myself to being exhausted until I either make it or give up on that dream.
But whether it's my career or not, I just need to write something for someone or I will have no self-respect anymore. This is one of the few ways in which I can meaningfully intersect with the world. Without writing it all down, I'm swept up in the current of my days and rapidly being pulled under.
Also, I am just plain miserable when I don't write. Those of you who know me only through this journal have an infinitely better view of me than people who only meet me in person. In writing, I am so much more eloquent and interesting. In person I stutter, struggle to make eye contact, possess a truly dreadful sense of timing; all of these are getting better with time, but slowly. I can't stand being that person all the time. When I can't write, it's difficult to share my inner self or my thoughts, and I exhaust myself trying.
I think it's this that has worn me down most of all. When I go to my job, my employer knows that I am smart, because she read it on my resume, because of what I set down on paper, but I would be the first to admit that I give little evidence of my intelligence in my day to day work for her. There are many forms of intelligence that I simply do not have. My body is inefficient and constantly off-kilter. As a form of communication, my mouth is hopelessly slow and inaccurate, and my tone of voice only makes things worse. My hands are clumsy, incapable of producing much except when they're holding a pen or poised over a keyboard. I am surrounded by people who judge themselves on what they do with their bodies and what they make with their hands, but that isn't me and it may never be.
Little things are bringing home to me that writing is what I was meant to do. I started a series of stories for Buzzy for Christmas, just a little something to amuse her. Things got a little out of hand, and over the course of a couple of weekends I wrote over 15,000 words. The stories aren't any good, of course, nor was I trying to make them good. I'd never share them with anyone but my friends. But I shocked myself with how easily I wrote so much. I didn't even realize I was doing it. And every essay I ever wrote for school was like that: tossed off without too much thought, just writing, because that is what I do. And almost without exception, my teachers praised them to the skies.
The thing is, I need to find something to write about. The process of writing isn't hard for me. It always takes far more time to come up with an idea, and most of the ideas I come up with either seem overly didactic or completely uninteresting. Who outside of my immediate circle wants to hear about my family (okay, there are some good stories about my dad if I knew how to do them justice) or my little struggles with religion? Maybe I just need to write a lot of stuff and sift through the stupidity. The problem is, as always, time. Or maybe it's just my own impatience, my yearning to get to the good part already.
Also, as far as trying to write for a living, I have had enough instability and rejection lately. I wish I were economically in a situation where I could feel secure enough to write on the side (well, there's always living off of the parental figures in my life, but my pride won't let me give up on supporting myself yet). Maybe next year my day job will suck up less of my time and energy. Or maybe all that is just another excuse and I need to resign myself to being exhausted until I either make it or give up on that dream.
But whether it's my career or not, I just need to write something for someone or I will have no self-respect anymore. This is one of the few ways in which I can meaningfully intersect with the world. Without writing it all down, I'm swept up in the current of my days and rapidly being pulled under.