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:
Excellent post. These truths are exciting to witness. I can't wait to hear about your experience.
Yay! I'm excited to hear about Jackson Hole, WY.... it actually sounds really cool. And even if the writer's conference doesn't change your life, you'll have an opportunity to hang out in Wyoming! tee hee. :)
There are a number of things I could respond to this post. I think I'll just post one of my own on a similar idea. See, you are inspiring!
And tomorrow, on our birthday, I have a meeting with about 9 other like-minded individuals about starting up a couple writing groups! So, the writing bug is hitting me too.
Post a Comment
<< Home