Friday, September 11, 2009

As I Was Saying

So, I'm starting a new blog as a completely independent person (independent of my "family and friends" blog, that is). Maybe people will find this. Maybe they won't. I don't know. Maybe I don't care. I'm not sure.

I used to be one of those who kept a journal, but I haven't written in my journal in at least a year, and even then it was a once-a-year kind of thing. I don't know what it is about being married, but I just don't write as often as I used to (physically write in a hardbound book, that is). It's not that being married has stifled my "writing career." I am not a writer. I am a rambler. I write letters. I write emails. I write occasionally on a blog. But I rarely, if ever, have a beginning, middle, end to my "stories."

In my single days I wrote in one of my jillion different journals--either when I was trying to find out who I was or some such thing OR when I was ridiculously drunk. Drunk writing seemed a much better option than drunk dialing. Most of the "who am I?" entries were stupid little ditties of me trying to be much deeper than I was. And most of the "drunk" writing episodes turned into "what am I doing with my life," which just disintegrated into big pen rips through about 10 sheets of paper. Oh, the melodrama of a 20-something!

Journal writing has been something that has ... there it goes again. I start to think about actual journal writing and my brain freezes. I was looking for a word, and it just disappeared. Perhaps the word was "intimidated me" (which, of course, is 2 words). Anyway, look at my diary from 5th grade to middle school, and the most exciting entry probably consisted of, "Today I watched a new movie. I love Author, Author. Al Pacino is amazing." Yes, I was the only person in the 1980s who (1) didn't realize that Al Pacino had been around "forever" and was probably truly amazing in, oh, I don't know, maybe Godfather 1-100 or maybe even Scarface. No, I thought Author, Author was the pinnacle of his success. and (2) even saw Author, Author (and no, I don't mean Arthur, though that was probably on my Top 10 list at the time). Then, I proceeded to college where I took a (one) writing class in which the professor would review our journals every month. Good God, I can't even imagine what she thought of mine. Such pathetic driveling. I should look some of it up. Maybe it wasn't as bad as I thought. But then again, it probably was, what with being "in love" at the ripe old age of 18 and all that. Lordie!

And then there was the journal writing of my 20s (see above). It's even more ... what's the word ... ironic? ... that most of these entries were written in journals that were gifted to me by people who thought that I would someday be a great writer. The problem with being an English major is that you actually read some really great writers, and boy howdy, is that intimidating to the perfectionist inside. No, I will never be a great writer. But who knows. Maybe I'll be a little entertaining?

Anywho, now here I am. Approaching 40 and using the "new" (semi-new to me) journaling available to my fingers. And yes, this could potentially count as middle-age drunk journaling. But that's not because I'm trying to figure out who I am, and it's not because I think my life sucks. I just need an outlet for my midnight ramblings. So here it is.

Hello, Blogger World. Let's see where this takes us, shall we?