Write It Out

I’ve been thinking about my writing aspirations and past lately…

When I was younger (yep, another “when I was younger.” I hate to think what I’ll be like when I’m 80. It seems like I say that phrase at least once every post!), I always dreamed of writing books, and I wrote down many stories of my own. I remember I had a young friend over once to play— probably when I was about seven—and I showed her all the things I had written. I confidently explained to her: “I’m going to be an author when I grow up.” It still makes me tremble a bit now; writing was so much a dream for my then. It seems rather silly today.

I never persevered very much with these stories. I would usually get what I thought what was a brilliant idea for a book, but then after I had written the introduction and perhaps the first chapter, my attention waned. I guess that’s why I eventually gave up on story writing. I was no good at coming up with plots, and the books I read were always more clever than anything I could ever come up with.  I think it was probably just what I anticipated as the thrill of having something published that spurred me to start these flighty projects. I’m just not very good at sticking things through.

I always liked writing during grade school—be it book reports, thematic essays, personal narratives or research papers. In high school and college, however, writing lost some  of its charm. Confined by the rigid rules and tedious requirements, I stressed over papers just like anyone else. I did really  enjoy my English 101 and 102 classes, though. My teacher was very fun and the papers we had to write were usually open to areas of personal interest.

Now it seems impossible that I would ever really write something. I’m not very good at grammar—even though it interests me somewhat—and putting together a book seems like it would be such a tedious process. If I ever did it, it would have to be about something that came naturally to me…something that I really loved. Heck, most days I can hardly get a blog post done! But I do like blogging. That is, of course, why I do it. Even if no one reads it I get a lot of personal satisfaction out of transcribing my often senseless thoughts. It is a release for me.

I do admit to dreaming about writing a memoir, or something of that sort, but I don’t really know what I would write about and how I could keep people’s interest. If I wrote about my eating disorder, it seems—at this point in the journey—that I don’t have a lot of wisdom or advice to offer. I’ve often thought that it would be neat to write about it from a Catholic perspective—a memoir of how my faith has carried me through the struggle. But, again, at this point, I don’t really see that as true. I am not very holy and could not write about mystical-conversions-when-I-was-lifted-from-my-agony-and- made-to-see-the-beauty-and-power-of-suffering. Pshaw! I’m too busy complaining. Not that I don’t think faith is important. I do!!! It’s just that I’m not an expert on it; I think my effort towards holiness leaves a lot to be desired. I’m just not sure how to cultivate and advance in this way. I think maybe I need a spiritual guide…? But I’m getting off-topic.

I also think that my writing can be rambling and hard-to-follow. I’m not particularly witty or gifted in the way I arrange words, despite the fact that my mom has always tried to convince me that I am. Maybe she is right, but—self-inflated as I can be—I’m not so sure. It would be nice if that were true. Then again, I think one always thinks higher of his or her own writing. For example, I have a much easier time plowing through a long post of my own (usually when I’m looking for typos—which I’m always afraid that I will have) than one of similar length by someone else. There is probably a very appropriate quote by some smart person to go with this, but I don’t know any off-hand. :P

In any case, I don’t know if my writing aspirations will ever come to fruition. I’m not sure what the future holds. For now, I’m quite content just to blog on here. And it seems that the more I write on this blog, the easier it becomes.  It’s like anything, I think. The more you do it, the easier it becomes. That’s probably the same with most writing—it’s a muscle.

You know what? I don’t know why I wrote all of this, in the first place! I’m not looking for anyone to reassure me (however tongue-in-cheek) that I’m a great writer or anything. I just wanted to get this out in black and white, senseless though it may be.

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“It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by.  How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment?  For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone.  That is where the writer scores over his fellows:  he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.”  ~Vita Sackville-West