Thursday, August 14, 2008

The blank page

I've made about 12,000 photos in 2008 so far. It's been a nice distraction to edit them, upload, tag, and move them around.

But there is a reason and a season and a lifetime. I am not here for the internship. It's boring and I'm completely not challenged (although I did help edit a paper that will be shared at a conference). So, what am I doing here then? If I was lucky to get the internship and it's not challenging, what else should I be doing? Of course, writing. Of course.

I said it before I left - out loud and to a couple of people only. I told a couple of people at the internship. The tarot cards said it. The flatmate said it - through the tarot cards and without knowing I had an interest in writing a book. I have nights and weekends free. I am not studying. I am researching a bit for a paper that could merit publishing. But really I've been catching up on the photos and now it's time. Despite the fact that I'm still working on the photos, it is time to realize the real reason I am here.

I compiled the writings from 1997-2008, which includes some transcriptions from my handwritten diaries from when I was in 7th/8th grade. I've been writing since I was 13, that's 20 years now. I have so much. And a lot of it isn't even here with me on the laptop or the external drive. The book isn't a memoir, but it will be of sorts. I'm thinking more along the lines of short stories. It seems that's how I've written all my life. Short, creative non-fiction stories or observations. There is the inner voice that says it's boring and standard and who cares. Who would find interest in my life? But I also know I've decided to live differently than others and most of that involves taking risks and using a unique view on life and exploring sex. Most of this living other people might not opt for and might find interest in. But it's so self-involved and boring to me. I'd rather just send a bunch of it to someone to weed through and pick what's interesting, what's boring, what would merit being bound in pages.

I guess I could view it as me trying to compile my own writing, for myself, for my library. It just seems weird. And there's no way I could write a fiction book. It's not my style to invent things (although my imagination invents bizarre, dark plots continuously). It's my style to tell what I have seen and done, and add lies where I see fit or I forget the details. But if you didn't know me, it wouldn't be so interesting.

Like Catherine M or 100 Strokes girl, there is interest in spying into others' lives (even though I thought the latter was over-hyped by too much and the former wrote in too dry a fashion for the tales she told). But I guess it was their freedom and release to get it out - in public. Whereas, I do that every time I write the blogs. Maybe I should stop writing in the blogs and deprive myself. Concentrate all energies into the blank page.

That would not do. Not at all.

So, for whom would I write or compile this shit? Why? What's the purpose?

All this analysis prevents me from writing anything at all. The critic inside - the most harsh judge, the road block to any progress, the squasher of dreams, the doubt before the trial, the failure before beginning - this voice needs to shut the fuck up.

I have courage on my side. Kicking me in the ass.

All I have to do today is cut and paste. Onto a blank page.

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