I've been having a little bit of a problem with writing lately. I guess it falls into the category of not doing it much. While I kept a fairly regular journal at the beginning the year, my time and my mind has been eaten up by worthless extras. I have found that I am not only not myself, but not exactly sure what that self is. Who am I if I don't write, I think, I guess that's the unfortunate truth. Without some stream of imagining, I am missing a great part of my being. Somehow, I don't really make a whole lot of sense without it.

I was reading this book, "Living Biblically" by A.J. Jacobs. It is an interesting book because it is almost a journey that processes a developing obsession. At the beginning of the year, September, he is an atheist who is interested in the bible and particularily interested in systematically, but fairly, unveiling the more odd sections of the bible. However, as the book goes on and he gets more in touch with the rthmyic rituals it entails, it becomes a part of how he views the world, who he is. I understand that kind of obession. I have my own little manias that last me months and years, connect me with all sorts of new people, new people that I, one moment, feel incredibly connected with and the next feel that I have drifted away from, instead obesessed with another of my manias. Writing, however, is my single chronic mania.

Before I could write, I wanted to write. I remember sitting down in kindergarten, so excited about scrawling out my first letters and being appalled at how bad my "A"s looked. Up on the board, Mrs. Browsley was tracing these beautifully legiable "A"s and there were mine, these squiggly monstrosities. When we started figuring out how to put them together, I started writing stories. There is one in particular that I hope I still have, a little book cut out of lined paper. It's about this hawk that stalks a mouse (as in, like a panther). It hides behind a rock and then leaps out and tackles this poor rat and eats it. The sentences are barely legiably and the spelling is so atrocious that I am not even sure if its correct grammar. I've always been a little ahead of myself.

I think that was why, when my dog Dizzy died, I asked my mom to help me out. I guess I went to her and said that I had a story to tell but I didn't know enough words to write it down. So, I had barely begun to write and I dictated my first story. Actually, it won a prize.

Somewhere around seventeen years later, I'm lost. I guess I know that I want to write, but just like those many years ago, there are things that stand in my way: I don't know enough, i haven't read enough, I am not that good at writing, I'm dyslexic, I'm disorganized, I can't finish what I start. However many of those are true, I am probably not wise enough to say. What i can say is that I'd rather be punching my fingers against a keyboard and filling the screen with pounds and pounds of pure lard than I would be doing anything else... even sleeping. I guess, in the end, this entry is more for me as many of the things I write are. Sometimes, I look back on my entries and smile, because half of what I put in there was just to make myself laugh some years down the road.

So what the hell. I'll keep writing.

finding the purpose of our life is a long life process.
» renaye on 2008-10-28 08:30:11

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