There are three answers: I need to write, I need attention, and this is what I'm supposed to do.
Allow me to elaborate.
Answer one: I need to write.
For as long as I can remember, I've written for fun and for self-expression. Here's a condensed illustrated history:
First Grade: Hooray! I can read, write, and almost spell big words
Fourth Grade: The Unicorn-In-An-Elementary-School-At-Night story
Fifth Grade: Nature-related non-rhyming poetry
Ages Fourteen to Fifteen: Terrible angsty poetry resulting from a rather disturbing unrequited-love obsession with a guy eight years older than me
Ages Fifteen to Sixteen: A terrible vampire story masquerading as fiction but actually resulting from a rather disturbing unrequited-love obsession with a guy six years older than me*
Ages Seventeen to Twenty-One: I keep trying to write fiction, but all I end up with is a pile of fragments of dead stories
Ages Twenty-One to Present: I write to keep a record of day-to-day life
*Thankfully, once I hit seventeen or so, I grew out of what was starting to become a creepy pattern. The guy I'm now obsessed with is only a year and a half older than me.
So, writing's "my thing." Problem was, I wasn't writing very often. I wasn't getting enough practice. So I blackmailed myself. It went like this: "You're going to start a blog and tell everyone about it. If you don't post regularly, they'll be like, 'Oh, look, something else she started and then didn't have the discipline to keep up with,' and everyone will see what a failure you are. Deal?"
Deal.
Reason Two: I need attention.
I'll admit it. I'm in constant need of approval, praise, and validation.
Answer Three: This autobiographical stuff is what I'm supposed to do.
There's no more poetry, terrible or otherwise, because these days I don't have patience for that kind of pretentious drama. There's no more fiction because I wasn't good at it and because I couldn't make it relevant to my faith (considering my preferred topics involved dead guys and the women who loved them.)
No poetry, no dark undead romances. That left nonfiction. As my last attempts at fantasy floundered, my journals began to flourish. Notebooks I really only used for recording sadness, anger, and other mental imbalances began to include records of good days I wanted to remember.
Then came the project that cemented my commitment to autobiographical stuff. I was grimly trying to resuscitate my last fiction story when I first felt the need to make a written record of the beginning of my relationship with Joe. I wanted to protect memories that time had already begun to erase. It was a scary concept; I had no idea how to put together a thorough factual record of a period I didn't completely remember. I didn't have all the memories, I didn't have all the details, and I dreaded trying to work it all out (especially since it was kind of a difficult subject. Don't ask.) But the idea stayed in the back of my mind, no matter how many paragraphs of fantasy drivel my labors produced.
Then, a few months after that last fiction story was officially dead and I had nothing else to do, I started working on the record...and, for the first time in years, completed a writing project. Our beginning was saved from any more forgetting. It was a huge relief to have it written down like that. The uneasy feeling I'd had for months was replaced by quiet.
That's when I started to understand why I was given the ability to write. For some reason, it's my job to record our good (and not-so-good-but-important) times the way the family videographer records their kids' birthdays.
I don't know whether my own children (or anyone else) will ever care about what I'm keeping...but I do know that I'll care. Already, I care. I've preserved memories that would've been lost. My words create snapshots of details I never would've seen again.
So, there you have it. This blog has been really good for me. In spite of my discomfort with the level of narcissism I exhibit by starting and maintaining a website completely devoted to talking about myself, I'll keep practicing and posting to avoid public humiliation. (Well, for now. We'll see how long it lasts, won't we?)
No comments:
Post a Comment