F**k Wordless Wednesday -- I Want to Talk
As it turns out, I am a horrible blogger. Anything I have to do on a consistent basis is
unlikely to get done. I suck at this.
It probably shouldn’t come as a surprise, though, that this isn’t working for me. I have lots of journals that are 90% empty. My first diary is 90% empty and I couldn’t wait to get one when I was little. I struggle with writing things down.
At heart, I’m a talker. If I lived in a Star Trek era where I could video diary, I imagine there wouldn’t be enough storage for what I could dump at the end of a day. I talk to myself ALL the time. I make lists, I offer encouragement, I solve world problems. But my brain moves too fast for my hands, whether writing OR typing, and invariably, any brilliance I might have to offer fades into the ether.
I envy my journaling friends. Those who have trunkfuls of their lives, who have self- analyzed and problem solved their experiences, who are wise beyond their years. I have taken workshops and webinars; I have felt the immense weightlessness of offering up your soul to the pages of a book. I have wanted to be a writer for my whole life – to offer my wit and wisdom, my snark and sarcasm, my heart and hope. But, it’s not sustainable for me. My life will always get in the way of my blog. And while that shouldn’t matter, I should write what I want, when I want, the person who invented search engine optimization would suggest otherwise. It’s quantity. It’s consistency. Quality? Meh.
I wish someone could just follow me around, recording and editing my thoughts. There are plenty that would be worthy of attention, and lots more that would end up on the cutting room floor. But it would be on the outside, and I wouldn’t be carrying it all around like a spare tire.
Maybe my pants would fit better.
I know that journaling is not for anyone else. That it is for me, and me alone. But, it’s exhausting, both emotionally and physically. It’s tedious. I like to talk it out...maybe talk it to death. When I talk, I see words in my head. I am processing and talking all at the same time, editing on the fly and adapting without the need for ripped up pages, or white out. I am auto-correct. I can string the words together like I am choreographing a dance or composing a masterpiece. I feel magical.
But then, something happens when I put pen to page. I get lazy. I don’t want to rewrite anything. I am so opposed to editing that I skip parts that might make a narrative pop. I scrape the surface, never digging too deeply into things or describing things in great detail. Personally, I tend to love books that are fast paced and filled with action and dialogue. If you take more than three sentences to describe something, or no one speaks for two pages, I am not reading it. I don’t care if you won an award, or you are a classic. I can’t take it.
Maybe I am not a writer. Maybe I am supposed to find a way to talk to you. This may be why I so love social media. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram...make me happy. Short, quick bursts of words. Speaking little but saying volumes.
Life is a conversation. Who wants to talk?
It probably shouldn’t come as a surprise, though, that this isn’t working for me. I have lots of journals that are 90% empty. My first diary is 90% empty and I couldn’t wait to get one when I was little. I struggle with writing things down.
At heart, I’m a talker. If I lived in a Star Trek era where I could video diary, I imagine there wouldn’t be enough storage for what I could dump at the end of a day. I talk to myself ALL the time. I make lists, I offer encouragement, I solve world problems. But my brain moves too fast for my hands, whether writing OR typing, and invariably, any brilliance I might have to offer fades into the ether.
I envy my journaling friends. Those who have trunkfuls of their lives, who have self- analyzed and problem solved their experiences, who are wise beyond their years. I have taken workshops and webinars; I have felt the immense weightlessness of offering up your soul to the pages of a book. I have wanted to be a writer for my whole life – to offer my wit and wisdom, my snark and sarcasm, my heart and hope. But, it’s not sustainable for me. My life will always get in the way of my blog. And while that shouldn’t matter, I should write what I want, when I want, the person who invented search engine optimization would suggest otherwise. It’s quantity. It’s consistency. Quality? Meh.
I wish someone could just follow me around, recording and editing my thoughts. There are plenty that would be worthy of attention, and lots more that would end up on the cutting room floor. But it would be on the outside, and I wouldn’t be carrying it all around like a spare tire.
Maybe my pants would fit better.
I know that journaling is not for anyone else. That it is for me, and me alone. But, it’s exhausting, both emotionally and physically. It’s tedious. I like to talk it out...maybe talk it to death. When I talk, I see words in my head. I am processing and talking all at the same time, editing on the fly and adapting without the need for ripped up pages, or white out. I am auto-correct. I can string the words together like I am choreographing a dance or composing a masterpiece. I feel magical.
But then, something happens when I put pen to page. I get lazy. I don’t want to rewrite anything. I am so opposed to editing that I skip parts that might make a narrative pop. I scrape the surface, never digging too deeply into things or describing things in great detail. Personally, I tend to love books that are fast paced and filled with action and dialogue. If you take more than three sentences to describe something, or no one speaks for two pages, I am not reading it. I don’t care if you won an award, or you are a classic. I can’t take it.
Maybe I am not a writer. Maybe I am supposed to find a way to talk to you. This may be why I so love social media. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram...make me happy. Short, quick bursts of words. Speaking little but saying volumes.
Life is a conversation. Who wants to talk?