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So, I used to write.
Oct. 24th, 2013 10:27 pmOnce upon a time I dreamed of being a writer.
I kept a sporadic diary for years; I have a milk crate full of my spiral-bound adolescent and 20-something ravings. I used to write long letters, on paper, by hand, some of them nearly novella-length (to the great amusement of the recipients), and mail them, you know, with an actual postage stamp, imagine that! In university I majored in English, and volunteered, obsessively, for my student newspaper. Later, I took to ICQ and email to share my thoughts. Then I kept a blog, off and on (more off than on, really) for a few years, and participated in online fora. And now I don't even tweet or post to Facebook, just lurk. I compose formal correspondence for work. I text. Occasionally the texting takes an explicit, fanciful turn. That's the sum total of my "creative" writing nowadays.
Last month, I was talking on the phone with one of my old correspondents, who'd dug out some of the letters I'd written a decade and a half ago. I nearly cried as I listened to them, they were so evocative of my life then, reminding me of incidents long forgotten, bringing my emotions back so vividly. And my voice! I had my own, unique, recognizable, identifiable, personal voice. What a waste it seemed, that I don't take the time to capture my experiences, to convey my feelings like I did back then.
I had an episode of intense melancholy a couple of weekends ago. My kid was with his dad for the long weekend, and my social plans had fallen through. Last summer I moved to this far suburb of a large North American city far away from everywhere I've ever called home, a place where the only person who loves me is said kid. I've started a new job that I find utterly overwhelming. I'm living in a ridiculous garret, with leaky plumbing and drafty ancient windows and the occasional mouse. My so-called love life is piecemeal and secretive, and it just felt hopeless. So of course I downloaded and binge-watched Broadchurch, because I needed to feel even more isolated and depressed.
And in the midst of this bout of extreme loneliness, I fantasized about starting a journal where I tell the entire truth about my life, in this voice that is mine and mine alone. So here I am.
I kept a sporadic diary for years; I have a milk crate full of my spiral-bound adolescent and 20-something ravings. I used to write long letters, on paper, by hand, some of them nearly novella-length (to the great amusement of the recipients), and mail them, you know, with an actual postage stamp, imagine that! In university I majored in English, and volunteered, obsessively, for my student newspaper. Later, I took to ICQ and email to share my thoughts. Then I kept a blog, off and on (more off than on, really) for a few years, and participated in online fora. And now I don't even tweet or post to Facebook, just lurk. I compose formal correspondence for work. I text. Occasionally the texting takes an explicit, fanciful turn. That's the sum total of my "creative" writing nowadays.
Last month, I was talking on the phone with one of my old correspondents, who'd dug out some of the letters I'd written a decade and a half ago. I nearly cried as I listened to them, they were so evocative of my life then, reminding me of incidents long forgotten, bringing my emotions back so vividly. And my voice! I had my own, unique, recognizable, identifiable, personal voice. What a waste it seemed, that I don't take the time to capture my experiences, to convey my feelings like I did back then.
I had an episode of intense melancholy a couple of weekends ago. My kid was with his dad for the long weekend, and my social plans had fallen through. Last summer I moved to this far suburb of a large North American city far away from everywhere I've ever called home, a place where the only person who loves me is said kid. I've started a new job that I find utterly overwhelming. I'm living in a ridiculous garret, with leaky plumbing and drafty ancient windows and the occasional mouse. My so-called love life is piecemeal and secretive, and it just felt hopeless. So of course I downloaded and binge-watched Broadchurch, because I needed to feel even more isolated and depressed.
And in the midst of this bout of extreme loneliness, I fantasized about starting a journal where I tell the entire truth about my life, in this voice that is mine and mine alone. So here I am.
