I've never been know as a great journaler. Like many young girls, I found the cutest journal I could, wrote religiously for two weeks, and then quickly lost interest until another cute journal found its way to my bedside table. The idea of blogging has been tantalizing me for some time now, the reasons slightly irrelevant, so I'm taking this (semi-) lonely evening to type out my thoughts.
The biggest motivator, besides the usual current obsession with a TV show and my slacker tendencies, is a quote I read by David Sedaris today. As a self-proclaimed, emphatic journaler, he said that the main motivation for his obsession is using journaling as a writing exercise. Warm up, get it out and down, then move on to the other stuff.
Although it is easy to confuse Seraris' writing with his journaling, he says that they are two different types of writing and two different personas. When journaling, Sedaris isn't trying to "entertain" anyone, he's just writing, finding his voice, experimenting with tone and words, venting. Perhaps journaling is how one finds their voice as a writer.
I imagine that if someone read my journal they would be very bored. It would have a lot of repeated thoughts (my friend once described my mind as a revolving glass door--just turning and returning). Right now they'd get some rubbish about an annoying boy named Greg (yes, I still think of you, even fondly sometimes). More importantly they'd get slightly pathetic and desperate longings for a boy named Sam (the sex is amazing, but we hardly know each other--why am I so obsessed?) They'd get some complaints about money and work--a reminder that I'm a normal young girl who wants more than she has.
I don't want to blog/journal about my philosophies on things. I feel like (uh oh, it's already starting) that would bore even myself to tears and accomplish nothing. I already know what I believe, why write about it? But if life ideals and love drama are out of the question, then what the hell do I blog about?
Perhaps this is why I've never taken to the medium. I'm not sure what I'm in it for. Am I here to tell tales of my love adventures? Do I want to figure out the meaning of life? Am I trying to make something I can market, give to my career like everything else I do with my free time? Am I trying to make money (unlikely)?
That's why I think the Sedaris quote impacted me enough to start blogging. More so than my own advice to upcoming writers or my obsession with "Awkward.", blogging to me can be like journaling to Sedaris: a writing exercise to find your voice and get you moving for bigger and better things.
For the first time in a long time, I'll write without an editor, a paycheck, an interview or research. When all of the outside influences are stripped, I'm left with nothing but me and my words, and a chance to see what really comes out of this literary little mind of mine.
I don't want to talk about my fears or expectations. I feel like I think about those enough that I don't need to waste any more time typing them up. But maybe that's the only way to get through them. So we will start with an anecdote.
It's a sad story, and one that I've told my whole life. I put off my project until the last minute, literally. 20% of my final grade was riding on a presentation I decided a good two or three hours of work would would sufficiently cover. I went to bed early and set my alarm for 8 a.m., giving myself a false sense of responsibility by waking up at a time I considered terribly early.
As planned, the alarm rang at 8. Two snooze buttons later, it hit me: I work at 11. I had picked it up last week and totally forgot. Well, that's not entirely true. I knew that I worked Tuesday at 11...and I knew that I had to do my project Tuesday morning before my 3:40 p.m. class--it just never occurred to me, for days, that they were the same Tuesday. This isn't the first time this year that I've made a similar mistake, yet I feel like it isn't something I've done my whole life. This new habit of over-scheduling and under-remembering was becoming a new habit--and it scares me.
My options were limited, but I had to act. I did some reading, took a short nap (stupid), went to work, rushed home, ate and watched TV (stupid), got my BC, went to school, typed my reading response for today's class (stupid), and proceeded to rush through a powerpoint presentation. An hour late, I stumbled into class with a half-assed powerpoint and zero lesson plan. I BSed my way through the discussion using notes I skimmed through online (the first time I've ever legitimately and completely cheated), and then I got up and BSed my way through 20% of my final grade.
Let's be honest, I'm not particularly proud of today. It wasn't until after class that it finally hit me. My professor handed back my previous reading responses from last week. I tried to read through her scribbled notes. Regardless of the time I put into an assignment, I always got some praise: a couple underlines, perhaps a "good!" This time I got a few stars. I rarely do all of the reading, what can I say? I'm not a reader by nature. But last week, through a series of lonely weekend nights, I actually did finish the novel we were supposed to read. On that reading response, there was a note at the bottom. "Great observations, maybe think of how to expand this argument for your final paper."
One big point to the bi-weekly reading responses was to get an idea started for your final paper. This was not a novel idea, in fact many of my previous professors had done similar things. However, I've never taken the assignments seriously. I mean, I knew that if I did it would make my life easier, but I failed to realize that it would also make my writing better. It clicked that the first time I actually did all of the reading, I already came up with an idea that my professor thought worthy of a 12 page final paper.
It was that easy for me. My entire college career I was worried that all I could do was BS. That maybe I'm not as good at what I do as I seem to be, that maybe I don't have good ideas. As it turns out, the only thing keeping me from being an English savant was my lazy self not getting all of the information available. If I had the tools, I could build just about anything, even a well constructed critical analysis.
I wish this realization happened before my botched presentation. If I had realized this about myself (and I know it seems obvious, but for some reason it wasn't), I would have nailed my presentation and actually taught the class something instead of relying on them to already know the material. And who knows, maybe I would have learned something or even taught my professor...if only I had the right tools.
From now on, perhaps I won't think of myself as a writer, blogger, teacher, editor, etc. I'm a builder. When people ask what I do with that degree I lie about having, I'll tell them, "Oh, I'm in construction." I'm a builder of whatever needs to be built, of whatever you put in front of me. I just need all of the info, all of the tools, required to do the job. And now I know that tools aren't given just because you pay tuition, getting those tools are on me. It's my responsibility to go to Home Depot and find what I need. To scour every aisle until I know nuts from bolts. To hold a saw in my hand until I understand how it works. That's what I do, I'm a builder.
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