I deleted my old blog and started this new one about a week ago, because I wanted to start my senior year with a clean slate, writing-wise. I wanted my writing to be much more serious, but clearly, that’s proven a lot harder than I thought it would be. The fact that I am compelled to write something either bitchy or (at least to my narcissistic ears) funny, every time I bring my short, stubby fingers to the keyboard, actually kind of pisses me off, sometimes. Maybe I’m just doomed to become the next Joel Stein. It’s just that Miley’s hilarious descent into mental retardation is much-too-awesome fodder for comedy to pass up on.
It’s not that I can’t write seriously. It’s part of my major, after all. But it seems that whenever I am writing for my own pleasure or psychological well-being, I seem to be writing to make myself either fold over in laughter or curl in a fetal position and cry. It’s slightly odd. It reminds me of that Ernest Hemingway line, that “you have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously.” So, I don’t know… Maybe I’m writing to cheer myself up or give myself some sort of cathartic experience? Or maybe, the more plausible explanation, I’m just a neurotic, narcissistic little dweeb who has way too much time on her freakishly baby-sized hands. No, seriously. They’re so tiny. Baby hands, with baby fingernails, on a goddamn 21 year old girl… Woman. Girl? Woogirl?
In writing, though, there’s a sort of divide, between writing for yourself and writing for others. When I’m writing for myself, it’s always a necessity, embalmed with a dire sense of urgency, like if I didn’t write this down right now, I just might keel over and die. Hmm, that’s a little extreme. It’s like hypergraphia with a little dash of schizophrenia mixed in. That’s absurd, though, because anyone who knows me will testify that I am a completely balanced and sane individual… Right, guys? Right? Guys? Hello?
When I’m writing for others, it’s usually to entertain them in some infinitesimal way, because making people laugh is fun. As long as clowns aren’t involved. In other cases, I’m writing to persuade or inform, depending on the target demographic and the subject in question. There are different applications to writing. That’s what’s so magical about it. It’s like an infinite supply of Play-Doh that will never get weird and slimy, no matter how many times you play with it.
The strange thing about writing, or creative expression in general, at least for me, is that it is almost always spontaneous. I’ll be suffering with my laundry, trying to figure out if socks belong in hot or cold water, if a lace t-shirt counts as a delicate, if someone will steal my underwear again, and then, quite suddenly, I’ll feel a rush of some bizarre, unidentified neurotransmitter that prods my brain into a writing fervor. It’ll be completely involuntary, like ‘word vomit’, according to the Mean Girls lexicon, or ‘verbal diarrhea,’ according to my lexicon.
Almost all the time, they are thoughts I would never actively search for, because I try not to think too much throughout the day anymore, given my tendency to over-analyze things. But actually, I relish in the darker thoughts that sometimes possess my mind, yet I can never put them on paper or screen. They just wallow there, in my head, until they are dragged out of the murky waters like a reluctant fish on a hook, by a fisherman who is unafraid of the abyss staring back at him. Perhaps it is better that way. I know that not many people are lucky enough to have such a fisherman.
Weak metaphors aside, I started this new blog to explore the limits and potentials of my writing. There will always be two writers at war in my head, the somewhat funny (read: bitchy) critic versus the brooding, dark Sylvia Plath wannabe. I’m admittedly a groupie when it comes to my favorite writers, and I am thoroughly convinced that I was Nora Barnacle in my past life, because James Joyce is my one, true love. But knowing all that I know about him, through meticulous and obsessive research (i.e. stalking), his demons, his personal thoughts, those naughty love letters, his middle names, pretty much everything about him, makes his writing all the more relevant and meaningful. Also, c’mon, it’s James Fucking Joyce. He’s ma homeboy.
My point is, that this little foray into my bipolar writing personality is more like self-analysis. I don’t know if it will be useful to any of you, but I think that writers (or those pretending to be one), despite being storytellers and tale-spinners by definition, should be absolutely and unequivocally honest with their readers. So, seeing as this is an attempted ‘new start’ in my writing, I want to try and do that upfront, just so you know what to expect, which is anything and everything, really. Okay. Here’s a video of cute animals doing cute things to make up for my rambling today.
OH MY GOD, YOU GUYS. HOW CUTE ARE BEARDED DRAGONS? :’D