Second post of the day, because it’s my birthday and I can do whatever I want. Ha.
I just got home from work, after four hours of slicing vegetables, and feel a bit more relaxed. I like my job, I really do. I like working and feeling like I have some sense of purpose and and doing something productive.
I still feel a bit weird though, although to my surprise and delight, a friend I haven’t been in contact with for a while sent me a birthday message and it was lovely. So that brought on the good happy fuzzy feelings for a while.
I know the tone of my blog has been a bit consistently down for these part few weeks, and that was never my intention. So sorry about that. The thing about sadness or anxiety is that it does tend to overwhelm everything and turn you into a blubbering fountain of self pity. Every little thing turns into a massive deal, and it gets to the point where to justify the yucky feelings you end up looking for reasons to feel that way, thus making yourself even more sad.
I hope that makes sense.
So sorry. I’ve been on a bit of a downer lately, after the thrill of travelling was over and real life had to begin again. I’ve also had a lot more time on my hands, seeing as work only takes up a certain number of days in the week and the rest of the time I feel like I’m just drifting around, trying to find something to do.
It’s not a good place to be in, so I’m going to try and cut it out.
I have this folder where I keep the stories and plays that i’ve written, and sometimes I dig them out and have a look. I like to see how my writing changes and (hopefully) improves. I like to see what I’m doing well and what i’m doing crappily, and be able to look through the perspective lens that time offers to see what ideas could be improved and what ideas should be canned.
Last night I had a flick, and found an old story I wrote years ago for english in school. It was a modern day appropriation of “Romeo and Juliet”, and in my opinion is probably the best thing I’ve ever written. Which isn’t saying much, because it’s hardly a masterpiece or even remotely publishable, but I like it. I’m proud of it.
It got me thinking though, this folder of stories. I haven’t really written anything properly for ages. This blog, of course, and i’ve been carrying around plenty of characters and ideas in my head, but as for putting pen to paper or cursor to page and actually writing anything down, there’s been a long dusty drought of nothing.
More then anything else I want to be a writer. So it’s frustrating to think that I have this ambition and desire but am doing nothing about it. It’s irritating. But every time I sit down to write it’s like the gears are all clogged and rusty, everything judders and creaks and nothing comes out but crap.
I think the problem might me that I’m trying to hard to be a writer, as opposed to trying to tell stories.
it’s like the dream of having something to hold in my hands that I created and was able to turn into something physical, is overwhelming the simple joy that comes from just writing down a good story regardless of how it turns out. To use the worn out metaphor, focussing so much on the destination that the journey is forgotten.
I don’t want to do that anymore. It’s not making me happy.
So, I’m going to kill two birds with one stone. Even though I like animals and don’t want to kill anything (except maybe bigots and stupid people).
The time i’ve spent drifting and feeling worthless I’m going to use for writing. Just writing. Just telling stories. No matter if anything comes of it or not.
So yep. A completely useless blog post where I talk about myself.
Hey, this is my blog.
And it is my birthday.