I used to stare at a blank page, empty text box, new Word document, Post-It note, napkin, inside of a cigarette pack, back of a grocery receipt, bathroom stall, canvas backpack, print margin, or billing envelope, and words would just pour out. It were as though the possibility of written communication flipped a "bleed" switch of sorts for my "heart." (Devices like scare quotes and asides were below me in those days.) (Ok, ok, not "below" me, but somewhat foreign. Like sarcasm.) Now I'm daunted. I'm afraid of everything I write being scrutinized, especially by people whose opinion I have absolutely no reason to care about.
It's like that with everything I've ever been remotely good at, of course. (Except the self-deprecation. I've taken that to a whole new level, one so clever and smooth, you'd almost think I actually hated my life.)
I've always managed to sabotage my own happiness and set massive hurdles in front of any possible success. Naturally, I've managed to keep myself from being a star pupil through the sheer force of terror. (Terror of being good, that is.) I knew I got into the Creative Writing program too easily.
(This is the part where I let myself wallow in self-pity: "Oh, but what an awful year I've had! I mean, last fall, everything went sour on me, and this fall, it's been nothing but stress after hurdle after obstacle! Can't a girl just slack off as a reward to herself for not committing suicide every now and then?" But then, that would be exasperating, wouldn't it? From me, anyhow. I can think of other people from whom you would find that kind of claptrap almost endearing, not that I'm bitter, or anything.)
**Interlude: Didi is sitting on my lap, bathing her leg, and Oh My God, Her Breath Stinks. Like, unholy cat-breath. Like, I swear, you'd think I was feeding her toxic waste. Damn, girl, go lick your butt or something. Anything's gotta smell better than your little, feline mouth right now. **
So, yeah, I'm a little stumped right now. I like writing. I have always liked writing. It's always been something I've done because I just plain wanted to. Not because I had to impress anyone, and certainly not for any other reason than I liked to do it. Now that I'm doing it in some sort of Maybe This Will Be My Job Someday capacity, I'm scared shitless and having the worst writer's block since Poe drank himself to death. (I don't know what that means. I think it was supposed to imply that Death is the ultimate writer's block, but it doesn't really quite apply to me, a living person.)
**Egads, she actually did begin to clean her arse.**
It used to be, you could hook yourself up with a free journal/diary/blogamathingie from any number of journal/diary/blogamathingie websites, pour your heart out, and have a million friends you'd never meet, instantly. You also had a bunch of shit you added to you journal/diary/blogamathingie, like virtual pets, apps which told everyone what book you were reading, what mood you were in, what CD you were playing, etc. But that was all so Web 1.0. (Jesus, who listens to CDs anymore?) Now we have Facebook, where you add a whole bunch of stupid little apps to pretend you're a zombie, send VirtualHerpes to your Official BFF, draw pictures on your MegaWall that look like shit my nephew does in MS Paint, and invite everyone to your crappy gig/party/meditation circle. What makes this Web 2.0 and very much not Web 1.0 is the fact that we no longer pour our hearts out. We just tell everyone how happy and cool we are, and try to connect ourselves to as many people as we've actually met in real life as we possibly can. (I have a "nobody I've never met" policy on Facebook, a policy I most definitely do not subscribe to here on good ol' SG.) We're all so concerned with networking. Everyone's on the web, better make a good impression. So, naturally, we all post photos of ourselves taken whilst drunk and look up people we hated in high school.
Back in the tangible world (for lack of a better smug-sounding term)... forget it. I have nothing relevant or smarmy/witty/entertaining-in-any-capacity to say about that end of things. Good opener, too bad about that.
Where was I going with this? Let's see, we've got my fear of success, coupled with my never-ending frustration with life's challenges, which somehow made its way into the bore that is the internet. I think right about here is where I throw in a LOLcat reference. I can has inspiration?
Anyhow, while there are plenty of good things in life, and most importantly (since I am writing about me, and you are reading my blogamathingie), my life (and my current obsession with italics), I can tell you that nobody really cares about them all that much. I know for a fact that I can't muster enough inspiration to moan and bitch to any entertaining extent on a regular basis anymore, so how could I possibly keep your attention with some anecdote about the cool people I work with or the fun I had putting together an Ikea shelf? Being a good writer isn't enough anymore. Everyone has a blog. Everyone is "published" these days. Nobody cares about poetry, because poetry is for pretentious Art Fags and Emo Kids who cut themselves. Nobody reads, they merely familiarize themselves with Literary Novels (I'll send you that link as soon as I finish typing this, Laura, I swear). And nobody, except maybe your folks, who only read whatever local rag has the best funny pages and prints the most letters to the Editor, reads the newspapers.
(Argh, this sounds like it's turning into a list of reasons I should give up writing.)
For those of you wondering where the point to this entry lies, I'll spoil the ending right now: there is none. This is just like back in the day, when I used to ramble on and on in a diary, not trying or needing to impress anyone, a few relative strangers telling me that I'm a good writer (and hey, it takes talent to rant as semi-coherently as I do), me returning the compliment where applicable, and a whole wealth of information about everything from DIY bombs to the plot synopses of every Doctor Who episode in existence at my fingertips (via Metacrawler, of course, because that Google thing is just so minimal and new, it can't possibly be any good).
Wait, wait, I know what you're thinking: nostalgia! Wretch! Who needs an inefficient past? We've evolved, baby! Yes, yes we have. I'm not the same person I was eight years ago, and neither are you. The web isn't the same. But the same essence is there-- I have all of my memories intact, even if my cells have regenerated; you still feel like you're still whoever you are; there are plenty of sites to get crucial Doctor Who information from. The only things that haven't evolved are the bomb-making sites, because militant anarchists have no time for the peacockery of attractive web layouts. (Also because such individuals have no real creativity, and I'd bet you'd resort to making bombs in your mum's basement if you were so talentless, as well.) But what's missing is innocence. I think innocence is missing from my life in a major way. Angst was about the experience of losing my innocence; this is post-angst, where I'm plain old confused about what to do with a world where nothing's a mystery anymore.
Running out of steam.
There is no simple solution to this. These are just thoughts spewed (spewn?) onto a blank page, all naked and helpless, hoping to fulfill their destiny as Kathleen's Self Expression. Or some such rubbish. The point to this part of the entry being I Don't Care What You Think Of This, I'm Expressing Myself, And There's Not A Damned Thing You Can Do About It (With Whiny Interludes About How Nobody Cares).
It used to feel so good to open up to nobody.
It's like that with everything I've ever been remotely good at, of course. (Except the self-deprecation. I've taken that to a whole new level, one so clever and smooth, you'd almost think I actually hated my life.)
I've always managed to sabotage my own happiness and set massive hurdles in front of any possible success. Naturally, I've managed to keep myself from being a star pupil through the sheer force of terror. (Terror of being good, that is.) I knew I got into the Creative Writing program too easily.
(This is the part where I let myself wallow in self-pity: "Oh, but what an awful year I've had! I mean, last fall, everything went sour on me, and this fall, it's been nothing but stress after hurdle after obstacle! Can't a girl just slack off as a reward to herself for not committing suicide every now and then?" But then, that would be exasperating, wouldn't it? From me, anyhow. I can think of other people from whom you would find that kind of claptrap almost endearing, not that I'm bitter, or anything.)
**Interlude: Didi is sitting on my lap, bathing her leg, and Oh My God, Her Breath Stinks. Like, unholy cat-breath. Like, I swear, you'd think I was feeding her toxic waste. Damn, girl, go lick your butt or something. Anything's gotta smell better than your little, feline mouth right now. **
So, yeah, I'm a little stumped right now. I like writing. I have always liked writing. It's always been something I've done because I just plain wanted to. Not because I had to impress anyone, and certainly not for any other reason than I liked to do it. Now that I'm doing it in some sort of Maybe This Will Be My Job Someday capacity, I'm scared shitless and having the worst writer's block since Poe drank himself to death. (I don't know what that means. I think it was supposed to imply that Death is the ultimate writer's block, but it doesn't really quite apply to me, a living person.)
**Egads, she actually did begin to clean her arse.**
It used to be, you could hook yourself up with a free journal/diary/blogamathingie from any number of journal/diary/blogamathingie websites, pour your heart out, and have a million friends you'd never meet, instantly. You also had a bunch of shit you added to you journal/diary/blogamathingie, like virtual pets, apps which told everyone what book you were reading, what mood you were in, what CD you were playing, etc. But that was all so Web 1.0. (Jesus, who listens to CDs anymore?) Now we have Facebook, where you add a whole bunch of stupid little apps to pretend you're a zombie, send VirtualHerpes to your Official BFF, draw pictures on your MegaWall that look like shit my nephew does in MS Paint, and invite everyone to your crappy gig/party/meditation circle. What makes this Web 2.0 and very much not Web 1.0 is the fact that we no longer pour our hearts out. We just tell everyone how happy and cool we are, and try to connect ourselves to as many people as we've actually met in real life as we possibly can. (I have a "nobody I've never met" policy on Facebook, a policy I most definitely do not subscribe to here on good ol' SG.) We're all so concerned with networking. Everyone's on the web, better make a good impression. So, naturally, we all post photos of ourselves taken whilst drunk and look up people we hated in high school.
Back in the tangible world (for lack of a better smug-sounding term)... forget it. I have nothing relevant or smarmy/witty/entertaining-in-any-capacity to say about that end of things. Good opener, too bad about that.
Where was I going with this? Let's see, we've got my fear of success, coupled with my never-ending frustration with life's challenges, which somehow made its way into the bore that is the internet. I think right about here is where I throw in a LOLcat reference. I can has inspiration?
Anyhow, while there are plenty of good things in life, and most importantly (since I am writing about me, and you are reading my blogamathingie), my life (and my current obsession with italics), I can tell you that nobody really cares about them all that much. I know for a fact that I can't muster enough inspiration to moan and bitch to any entertaining extent on a regular basis anymore, so how could I possibly keep your attention with some anecdote about the cool people I work with or the fun I had putting together an Ikea shelf? Being a good writer isn't enough anymore. Everyone has a blog. Everyone is "published" these days. Nobody cares about poetry, because poetry is for pretentious Art Fags and Emo Kids who cut themselves. Nobody reads, they merely familiarize themselves with Literary Novels (I'll send you that link as soon as I finish typing this, Laura, I swear). And nobody, except maybe your folks, who only read whatever local rag has the best funny pages and prints the most letters to the Editor, reads the newspapers.
(Argh, this sounds like it's turning into a list of reasons I should give up writing.)
For those of you wondering where the point to this entry lies, I'll spoil the ending right now: there is none. This is just like back in the day, when I used to ramble on and on in a diary, not trying or needing to impress anyone, a few relative strangers telling me that I'm a good writer (and hey, it takes talent to rant as semi-coherently as I do), me returning the compliment where applicable, and a whole wealth of information about everything from DIY bombs to the plot synopses of every Doctor Who episode in existence at my fingertips (via Metacrawler, of course, because that Google thing is just so minimal and new, it can't possibly be any good).
Wait, wait, I know what you're thinking: nostalgia! Wretch! Who needs an inefficient past? We've evolved, baby! Yes, yes we have. I'm not the same person I was eight years ago, and neither are you. The web isn't the same. But the same essence is there-- I have all of my memories intact, even if my cells have regenerated; you still feel like you're still whoever you are; there are plenty of sites to get crucial Doctor Who information from. The only things that haven't evolved are the bomb-making sites, because militant anarchists have no time for the peacockery of attractive web layouts. (Also because such individuals have no real creativity, and I'd bet you'd resort to making bombs in your mum's basement if you were so talentless, as well.) But what's missing is innocence. I think innocence is missing from my life in a major way. Angst was about the experience of losing my innocence; this is post-angst, where I'm plain old confused about what to do with a world where nothing's a mystery anymore.
Running out of steam.
There is no simple solution to this. These are just thoughts spewed (spewn?) onto a blank page, all naked and helpless, hoping to fulfill their destiny as Kathleen's Self Expression. Or some such rubbish. The point to this part of the entry being I Don't Care What You Think Of This, I'm Expressing Myself, And There's Not A Damned Thing You Can Do About It (With Whiny Interludes About How Nobody Cares).
It used to feel so good to open up to nobody.
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