wordy
life has a funny way of leading itself astray. and i have a funnier way of leading my life astray and them blaming it as if it is a volitional entity completely separate from that which i call "me". when i first began to post brain explosions on this blog i was successfully presenting myself as a normal person with all of the features of a normal life. i had a full time job that i loved and a part time job that helped keep me in bad habits like smoking and using tanning beds. i lived in a house and had a partner whom i loved. the household came complete with three vehicles, two dogs, a cat and a big yard for hosting large gatherings of friends and family. i was reasonably involved politically and informed of important events in the world. as it turns out, i am not designed to play that particular role in the cosmic scheme. regular and predictable employment and hours that look like a routine and gratuitous social appearances just aren't who i am.
today, i live quite alone in a small apartment with my match-box dog and two jobs that require only the ability to fetch and deliver. i have only as much of a social life as i truly want to have and i am engaged in a lustful and obsessive affair with words. i read obsessively. i write obsessively. i think about reading and writing obsessively. i spend more hours and dollars in bookstores than i do in social interaction, grocery stores, and dining/drinking establishments combined. i don't know what happened to me. something broke loose in my brain a year ago and demanded that i live according to my own passions, regardless of anyone else's opinion of them. i used to blog about how much i would love to write. i did that for months without ever giving much thought to the possibility that i could start to do that if i wanted to. i used to dream about having time to read and think and craft without feeling as though i was being perceived as wasting time. now with the exception of cleaning my apartment and doing my laundry once or twice a week, my life is exclusively hobby-driven. i do only what i want to do and i always do it whenever the fuck i want to. i am so destined to be single. i don't know that i could give this up. i can live so honestly and so quietly and so freely in my little world with my little brain and my little writing instruments. i love it. my previous job was wonderful but so demanding and comsuming of my mental energy and sometimes of my physical strength. i had nothing left to give to the hollow places in my soul that needed so badly to be entertained and enriched by activity and passion of my own choosing. maybe i am making up for lost time and one day this will balance out. or maybe this is who i am and i will always be slightly off the radar and quite unreachable.
in less than 6 weeks i am going to attend a writers conference in jackson hole, wyoming. four months ago only a few of my closest friends even knew that i have a deeply-rooted and persistent passion for writing. and this week i sent a manuscript to strangers with job titles like "editor", "agent", "author". how fucking terrifying is that? now i don't go about believing that i will one day be a person who shares any of those titles, but i am a person who appreciates and enjoys this craft more than any other activity and i can't resist the desire to take one tiny little step closer to a world filled with others who can't seem to think of anything else more energizing either.
indeed this means that i am a person who is willing to spend 1500+ dollars in an effort to be a temporary visitor in the writer's world, the exclusive goal of which is to make private ramblings, journal entries and maybe blog posts a little bit more interesting. i have no idea from where such a dollar amount will come. i have no idea what i am getting myself into. the only things i know are that i will not belong there, i will be enormously intimidated, and it is likely to be the best experience of my life. i know it doesn't make sense. but i have to go because the god of my understanding said so.
today, i live quite alone in a small apartment with my match-box dog and two jobs that require only the ability to fetch and deliver. i have only as much of a social life as i truly want to have and i am engaged in a lustful and obsessive affair with words. i read obsessively. i write obsessively. i think about reading and writing obsessively. i spend more hours and dollars in bookstores than i do in social interaction, grocery stores, and dining/drinking establishments combined. i don't know what happened to me. something broke loose in my brain a year ago and demanded that i live according to my own passions, regardless of anyone else's opinion of them. i used to blog about how much i would love to write. i did that for months without ever giving much thought to the possibility that i could start to do that if i wanted to. i used to dream about having time to read and think and craft without feeling as though i was being perceived as wasting time. now with the exception of cleaning my apartment and doing my laundry once or twice a week, my life is exclusively hobby-driven. i do only what i want to do and i always do it whenever the fuck i want to. i am so destined to be single. i don't know that i could give this up. i can live so honestly and so quietly and so freely in my little world with my little brain and my little writing instruments. i love it. my previous job was wonderful but so demanding and comsuming of my mental energy and sometimes of my physical strength. i had nothing left to give to the hollow places in my soul that needed so badly to be entertained and enriched by activity and passion of my own choosing. maybe i am making up for lost time and one day this will balance out. or maybe this is who i am and i will always be slightly off the radar and quite unreachable.
in less than 6 weeks i am going to attend a writers conference in jackson hole, wyoming. four months ago only a few of my closest friends even knew that i have a deeply-rooted and persistent passion for writing. and this week i sent a manuscript to strangers with job titles like "editor", "agent", "author". how fucking terrifying is that? now i don't go about believing that i will one day be a person who shares any of those titles, but i am a person who appreciates and enjoys this craft more than any other activity and i can't resist the desire to take one tiny little step closer to a world filled with others who can't seem to think of anything else more energizing either.
indeed this means that i am a person who is willing to spend 1500+ dollars in an effort to be a temporary visitor in the writer's world, the exclusive goal of which is to make private ramblings, journal entries and maybe blog posts a little bit more interesting. i have no idea from where such a dollar amount will come. i have no idea what i am getting myself into. the only things i know are that i will not belong there, i will be enormously intimidated, and it is likely to be the best experience of my life. i know it doesn't make sense. but i have to go because the god of my understanding said so.
posted by shelly at 5/26/2007 06:24:00 PM
2 comments
