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Here's a fascinating article about a guy who used to write all the time and then send pages and whole books of his diaries to people to get his ideas out, and a discussion of the general blogosphere and so forth.
It's one of those times where it makes me contemplate my space as an intellectual. I'm not that good at it, though of course I seldom shut up. ;) As I recall my diary entry on September 11, 2001 consisted of something like "Holy Fuck. Classes cancelled. Andrew okay. Holy Bloody Fuck." I guess I don't ruminate well on paper or laptop, or that well vocalizing either. As I've said to certain people before, sometimes it feels like I have things to say, but they get stuck in my throat, and the same things happen with my pens and pencils and fingers. The transmission from thought to material just does not happen that well. It's a bit like painting, in that respect.
I used to paint a good bit. Pretty decent amateur--won a ribbon once. I don't draw all that much anymore, and very very seldom paint. Sometimes I miss it though. When someone truly touches me, I give them drawings. I don't think people really understand that to me, deeper meaning is found in that somehow.
The lovely thing about writing and drawing and painting is how it narrows the world, or rather how you can escape it. Everything just comes down to that creation of line and phrase. You go away. Coming back makes me dizzy. I also find that for whatever reason I haven't been able to go away properly for a while--and by "while" I mean over a year. I wrote almost half a novel last May and haven't touched it since. (I do hope I can finish it some day.) I don't know if it's been so hard because I've been dealing with life crap and depression, or maybe I'm just adult now and can't go to the other place so easily anymore. But I hope one day I can find my way back there.
It's one of those times where it makes me contemplate my space as an intellectual. I'm not that good at it, though of course I seldom shut up. ;) As I recall my diary entry on September 11, 2001 consisted of something like "Holy Fuck. Classes cancelled. Andrew okay. Holy Bloody Fuck." I guess I don't ruminate well on paper or laptop, or that well vocalizing either. As I've said to certain people before, sometimes it feels like I have things to say, but they get stuck in my throat, and the same things happen with my pens and pencils and fingers. The transmission from thought to material just does not happen that well. It's a bit like painting, in that respect.
I used to paint a good bit. Pretty decent amateur--won a ribbon once. I don't draw all that much anymore, and very very seldom paint. Sometimes I miss it though. When someone truly touches me, I give them drawings. I don't think people really understand that to me, deeper meaning is found in that somehow.
The lovely thing about writing and drawing and painting is how it narrows the world, or rather how you can escape it. Everything just comes down to that creation of line and phrase. You go away. Coming back makes me dizzy. I also find that for whatever reason I haven't been able to go away properly for a while--and by "while" I mean over a year. I wrote almost half a novel last May and haven't touched it since. (I do hope I can finish it some day.) I don't know if it's been so hard because I've been dealing with life crap and depression, or maybe I'm just adult now and can't go to the other place so easily anymore. But I hope one day I can find my way back there.
