Friday, February 17, 2012

My Blog, My Self

Is there anybody out there? I honestly forgot this blog existed. Did you? Remember when I was good to you? I am still good, I hope. But it is not to you at the moment, Almost Literary. I am in school and writing two novels (this I would recommend to no one, do as I say and not as I do, friends) and I have two full time jobs and I am writing a short story, which is full of bad words, namely the word "fuck," and sex, which I am so uncomfortable writing about but very comfortable having (tell no one) and though I say or do something all the time, to write it is different, so very different. How strange that my writing is more intimate than my actual life.

Because my writing is what is inside. The best. The worst. What I am and what I do can be forgotten after a few glasses of champagne or months away, but what I write, that is here for good. It will be here after I'm dead. If anyone cares, that is another point entirely. If I write something good enough, it will mean more than my life ever could. So silly, I am. I love art. I lack the talent to be an artist without working so hard and trying and sweating and screaming. I want, so bad. I have almost enough talent. But I do not have enough. I never will. And the worst part? I will not stop, because what I have plenty of is ambition. I am stubborn, a mule. I will not, I can not. This is the only thing that I can't stop doing. Tell me to never eat ice cream again? No problem. Tell me that yoga causes lymphoma? I shall stop. But writing, it is the thing that will kill me, because it is what I love, and it does not love me back, and yet I still come after it. I won't stop. It will be the end of me, and I'm glad that I know how I will go. It brings me peace. Until then, it's just fury at the computer, at the page. Not yet, it's not yet. What is in my mind is so much better than my output. And still, and still.

It is only with volume that I can ever get close to where I need to be. Buried under documents, clutching my macbook and with labored breathing go, just go.

When this short story is done, I will post it for you in the next week or so. It says "fuck." Be forewarned.


Farrah said...

Looking forward to your writing. We're of the same age (approx) and I started reading your blog 6 years ago. I feel like old friends with an intimate history that you don't know about. Very excited about having to shield my eyes from the f word. It's worth the wait.

Farrah said...

Also, I'm glad to see posts. I got a little worried when you disappeared around this time last year.