June 25, 2009

• To Write

  I miss writing. That's sort of a weird thing to say really because writing, like walking or singing or breathing, is just one of those things you can just do. Anywhere. And in any format you want. I haven't actually used a pencil to write anything in ages, but I could if I wanted to.

  The thing is, I miss writing for the heck of it. Come to think of it, I can't honestly say that I've done that since I was, oh I don't know, very little and making books out of old notebook paper and sewing the pages together with my grandmother's needle and thread. I used to write for the heck of it then. About farm animals and little girls and Bengal tigers. I didn't know what Bengal tigers actually were or what they looked like, but I wrote (and illustrated, and edited to a certain extent).

  When I was in high school I'd get inspired by the summer, by a movie, by the way the trees talked to each other, or by a single line that I thought I could fit expertly into some dialogue in some story I hadn't actually thought out yet, but boy that line was cool. I had notebooks, still have notebooks of half started tales, of family secrets and destined lovers and rape and intrigue and mystery. None of them have endings. None of them have middles really. Just shadows. Ideas. Thoughts. I can't finish them. I really don't think I will. I think if/when I do get something published it will be entirely new, different. Better somehow? I don't know. I know I have it in me. I know I could create something, fashion something I can be proud of, can introduce to the world.

  I think I'm almost afraid to try.

  • 7:26 pm
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