I am trying something new. You may have noticed. I’m trying to post more on my blog. Last year I gave myself a goal of fifty-two posts for the year. That’s one per week. Obviously. I found myself not posting sometimes because I didn’t have what basically amounted to an essay formated in my head and, the bigger problem, on my computer. I don’t want to do that anymore. I have instituted a few things that will be done weekly and monthly. My weekly crushes for one (which basically constitute anyone or anything that has struck my fancy that week). Also my childhood icons. I may be adding a new one chronicling all the things I love but am too ashamed to admit, but I’m not entirely sure. After all, I am ashamed to admit them. But, sometimes I may just talk.
The reason I started this blog in the first place was because I wanted to expunge my thoughts from my brain. I wanted to put them up so that people could read them, or not, either one is just fine with me. I never really expected to become something that people had to tune in to. That’s why I’ve never chronicled my life. I’ve used stories and said things about myself to be sure, but I never wanted the sort of blog where I got on and said everything I’d done that weekend. Still, when I started I used myself far more than I did later. So, I’ve decided that a little opening up can’t hurt.
I used to be a fiction writer. In college, when I took my millions of workshop courses, I wanted the fiction ones. I like surrounding myself with made up stories because they were always that much better than real life. I can escape into a book for hours and take myself away from the world in a way that I can’t do with movies or television. If you’ve read before you know that I don’t shy away from either of those, but between getting caught up in watching too many movies and far too much television, I always take the time to read books. Which isn’t surprising given the fact that I want to write them. However, since college things have changed. Just like things changed after high school. Perhaps we should start there.
I wanted to be an actress. I did all the plays in school, was a member of the Theatre club and the International Thespian Society. I did plays in the community. Anything that would give me a part. When I was very small I wanted to be an astronaut. And a paleontologist. I recognized, however, that I didn’t excel in some pertinent fields for those professions, ie. maths and sciences, and decided that I should focus on something far more attainable. I was going to be a movie star. So I could play an astronaut and a paleontologist and whatever other intangible career path I fancied. I could be them all! And so I did all that. And at the end of high school I did two things; I auditioned for theatre programs at different schools, and I wrote a book. A terrible, terrible, overwrought, over-dramatic, over-typical book. The problem remained, however, that I really liked reading that book. And while theatre dictated which school I attended my attention shifted further and further towards the English side of things. So, in my sophomore year I changed my major, negating practically an entire year’s worth of studies.
Later, a similar, less detrimental change occurred in me. People always said they liked my fiction. I never had a problem getting into any of my classes, which needed to be auditioned for. I think I’m a fine fiction writer. But here’s the thing; at the good old Ohio State University in order to have a focus area in any one subject of English one must have a total of three upper level courses. At the time you could only take Writing Fiction II twice. So I had to pick. It was either Writing Poetry II, which I despise with the fire of a thousand suns, or Writing Non-Fiction II. The choice was clear, and it helped that my advisor and former mentor was teaching a Non-Fiction class. I had nothing to submit for approval but she said it was fine and invited me into the course. I had no idea what to write. I didn’t write about myself. I can be a fiercely private person. I didn’t even know what non-fiction felt like. So I did the only thing that I could do; I wrote about myself. I wrote about my sister. I wrote about my best friends and my insecurities (which are immense). I wrote about the things I knew; loneliness, excitement, inadequacy, films, and my job. I wrote heartbreaking things that were inexplicably hilarious. And I found that I was sort of good at it. People liked it. And while I resisted, insisting it wasn’t what I liked, I was a fiction writer, I keep writing it and it kept getting better, funnier, more interesting.
I’m not sure there’s a point here except to say that everything is constantly evolving. I started painting a long time ago. I was never good, but I like it. When I moved into my new apartment, which is no longer new as I no longer live there and haven’t for three years. Meaning, six years ago, I sort of stopped. It stopped mattering to me. But recently I dug up my paints for the basement and discovered they’re still usable. Six years later and my acrylics are still as smooth as they were then. I haven’t started painting again, but I have done some sketching. I’m not great, but I do it because it makes me happy.
I’m on a quest right now; find what makes me happy, change my life.
Some of that’s external. I just got a new position at work; Education Coordinator. It’s a crap job with crap pay, but it’s a job with responsibilities. A job I can feel proud to be doing. Something that matters, if only a little. The fact that the ten to three shifts are fabulous hours only helps the matters along. I’m much better when I’ve had sleep. I’m much happier. But that’s step one. Or many step five hundred and thirty three. There are no set steps to this, I don’t think it would count if there were.
So, you’ll get to hear more about it, more about me. If that’s okay with you feel free to stick around, if not feel free to come and go as you please. Sometimes I’m dour, I suppose, but I do try awfully hard to be funny.