He figured it was as good a time as any to start writing his memoir. So, he sat down and began to write. He cracked open the leathery journal that had been sitting at the bottom of a finished desk drawer, and was hit with the smell of blank paper, ink, and being fourteen. A journal that hadn’t been touched in years, was now what mattered most to him in this world. And in this moment, he felt he needed to make his life count, in words, on paper, with ink and indecipherable scribbles that to him held the stories of beautiful women, shitty bosses, and braces. To not let it sit any longer in the depths of a finished desk drawer. To scream. To yell. To be heard. To tell its story, however horrifying, unsympathetic, beautiful it was.
Currently reading a lot of Indian and Contemporary American lit. Funny combination, huh? If I’ve learned anything from reading such a hodge-podge of stories, it’s that you should probably choose a title last.
Working on a new story. Working through hours of no sleep and too many cups of coffee. But, I’m working on a new story, and I am excited. Over-caffeinated and slightly delusional. But excited. This is going to be good.
Oh hey. It’s been a while. A long one. My rather usual indulgence in school and all things extracurricular has seemingly eaten whatever time it is I have for writing this blog. But I’m back, at least for a short while, with a brain-ramble that is long overdue. As a second semester junior, the end of college creeps ever closer with each essay that I seem to be writing on “The Metaphysics of Religious Existence in mid-to-late 18th Century Russia,” and I don’t think I’m prepared. At all. I like writing my essays. Structured and graded, I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING. I don’t think I can say the same of my metaphysical and existential place in THE REAL WORLD– but if I could write an essay about it, things might be easier. I don’t think you’re ever handed a rubric in the grown-up world, but to write is to process. I think that may be the idealistic writer in me talking, but hey, that’s obviously what the Moleskine journal collection was intended for.
Oh hey. I don’t very much feel like focusing on frustrating assignments right now… and behold, I shall write. I’ve always wondered why I’m so bothered by everyone else’s academic achievement. Or rather, why I feel the need to push myself past some invisible limit. Yet I fail sooooo miserably. Why is that? I can obviously do better and try harder, but something about that seems so…boring. Of course, I want a job right out of college, like everybody else here, and I want to have the spectacular resume that we’re all supposed to kill for, but I’d much rather write and do things that make me happy. Oh dear blog, what would I do without you? My academic advisor tells me to find an internship, and I continue to tell myself that I belong on an organic farm somewhere in Scotland, away from the world growing filthy, fantastic dreads and potatoes. I used to love school, but I seem to have been away when that all changed. I used to be good at school. Ha, I must have extended my trip. I wonder how much that cost me. It may sound strange, but some part of me is so thankful that I’ve adopted this new attitude. Granted, there are a lot of things I could probably be doing differently, but I am so happy in the path that I’ve chosen. And that has to count for something, right?