Writing in my Blog

Every now and then I ask myself, "Why do I write?"

"Because, you're a writer," I'll answer myself.

"Not a very good one," I'll then say.

"Well of course not," I'll remind myself. "Not yet anyway. Now write already."

I often talk to myself aloud, mostly when I think I'm alone. It might help me think, or it might prove that I'm crazy. Either way, here I am writing, just like I told myself to do.

Now, I was given this assignment from Jamie, the wife of the high school group pastor. Jamie asked me to help her write and illustrate something and I agreed to it excited at the opportunity. I started it, and then doubted myself. I sent her what I had started and she expressed that she had great confidence in me and my ability and wanted me to finish it. I don't have a deadline for it. It's just there. In my computer, in my mind. Waiting.

I admit I've been dragging my feet about it. Perhaps I'm afraid that the final result won't be good, and that everyone will pretend like it is. I can't stand the thought of that. Or perhaps I'm just lazy. Either way, it remains, 75% of the written part done, and only general sketches done for the illustration.

I think the illustrating part scares me the most. Not that I have great confidence in myself as a writer, but that I have even less confidence in myself as an artist. I know that art is subjective. Some of the most simply and crudely done pieces have been "Oooh"ed and "Aahh"ed at by the rich and famous and sold for ridiculous amounts of money. The truth is that I could scribble something down and say that it is my illustrations and everyone will gather around and talk about the deeper meaning in it and it's strokes. But I don't want to have crappy work passed as art. I want to be good. Or at least, as good as possible. And I'm afraid of where to begin.

I'm very good at starting writing things. I have this idea in mind, this storyline that I get passionate about and so I take my ideas to pen and paper or the computer... but then I wear out. I simply just stop. I haven't finished a single full story. Short stories, sure. But even those, not many. I think that's what separates aspiring writers from actual writers. Finishing well.

Like I said before, I've actually taken up journaling again. I think that helps my word flow. The fact that I actually finished a journal is a big deal. Now, of course, it's hardly legible. No, seriously. I have awful handwriting. "Neat and complete work," my mom would always tell me, yet I never seemed to grasp that idea. I can write somewhat decently if I focus entirely on it, but I don't usually, And this is my regular handwriting. Don't get me started on cursive. I once heard this saying about cursive which amused me, "Writing in cursive is the equivalent to mumbling." It's very true. You read someone, anyone's cursive, and chances are that you won't be able to read all of it. It doesn't matter how beautiful their penmanship is.

I'm afraid I'm not a very neat person. I was filling out an application to work at Starbucks, and it's survey asked the same question in about ten different ways. It wanted to know if I was a neat worker, and not just some slob who was going to make extravagant coffee and leave a huge mess for everyone else to clean up. I wouldn't go as far to say that that's who I'd be while working there, but I am nowhere near immaculate. I try, especially at other people's homes or buisnesses or with their things, to be extra careful and neat, but my room is never going to be clean. I'd say I'm pretty respectful towards books, especially when they belong to others, but I wouldn't say I'm their best caretaker. One of my favorite things to do while reading is to eat a favorite snack such as something chocolatey, or some sort of chip or popcorn. This mean that I had fingerprints and smudges on certain pages of my own books. I tried being extra careful with library books, and of course, extra extra careful with friend's books, but I can't say they returned in as pristine condition as when they first reached my care.

It would also appear that I've inherited the lack of ability to summarize anything from my family. Whether it be an outline, my thoughts, or especially a story, it is very nearly impossible for me to give you the basic details.

It goes something like this:

The beginning, oh no, really, listen the beginning is quite worth it.....

The middle is just as important, don't leave, just hear me out...

Just wait till you hear the end! I'm almost done, promise.....

I wouldn't say I'm as bad aloud as other members of my family, but I may be the worst as far as rambling writing goes. My literature teacher wanted to know why, when summarizing The Odyssey, I was writing my own translation.

I'm not entirely sure why I decided to tell you all of this right now, except that I think that it might help you understand me a bit more. And hey, the more practice I put in, the better.