Not Writing.

So I lied (per usual) about writing more. I am notoriously lazy and rather uninteresting. When I was younger, I used to write all the time. I think about when Laura and I used to tote our spiral notebooks out to the creek to my backyard. We'd sit on the grass and write the afternoon away. Then we'd swap notebooks and read awhile longer. I always loved her stories. She had some great soap-opera drama about a kidnapped woman with an alien growing inside of her. It was captivating. By the time I got to high school, I took a few creative writing classes thinking it would help sharpen my intuition. I found myself with less and less to say unless my boyfriend had pissed me off. I felt a bit put off when we had to read in front of the class and everyone got to "critique" your work. I always hated this part the most. I didn't like the judgement by my peers. I wrote a play that was actually performed for a senior class project. But when I reread it in college, I felt embarrassed by the emo-ness of it and don't know if a copy of that play even exists anymore. So as time drifts by, I seem to write less. I don't journal. Hell, I can't even be bothered to blog. Perhaps it is because my thoughts have become less interesting. The grid of my schedule has impacted my imagination and rather than thinking of something fun that could happen, I wonder if the bus will be crowded on the way home.

I went to Australia for a very fun time for a few weeks. I brought a journal to try to capture some of the exciting things I would see. I didn't write more than 2 pages. Last summer in Africa, the same thing happened. I could barely be bothered to write a list of interesting things I saw on signs or cultural habits, much less journal about my thoughts. I am embarrassed by it.

So I did some thinking about this and how it bothers me but I can't be bothered to action. I think its because writing used to be some kind of outlet for me. When I was bored or frustrated, I felt writing would help channel that energy. However, when I go back and actually read what I wrote, its pretty ridiculous stuff. I used to make this huge deal out of Mike getting a hold of my poetry or my diary. I'd nearly stab him in the arm with a pencil rather than let him see what I thought. I am not confident about it and all the academic advice I had along the way never really encouraged me to write more only abandon it.

Even if I'm 26 now (old according to Hollywood), I'm hoping I have not run out of good ideas yet. Graduate school rewired me to write in these weird choppy sentences that are used only to communicate efficiently. But in that process, I've lost any inkling of eloquence too. So now, I'm over thinking it. I'm thinking of taking a writing class again, perhaps I will make Laura do it too.

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So you're probably wondering how the wedding is going. Typical I might say. Only to mean its stressing out everyone (unnecessarily, I might add) and a tad disastrous. Buddha sure wasn't kidding about that desire causes suffering bit. Inside of my cluttered brain, I see this little person jumping up and down in a squeaky voice yelling, "This is ridiculous! This is stupid!" But, I feel powerless to stop the machine. That would take effort, I lack effort and defer to entropy to take over for me.

We're only two months away though. So instead of planning and picking out flowers (they die anyway, how impermanent), I've tried to do some reflection. More thinking, less whining. I will try to post some of those thoughts and any other funny stories here.

You're favorite, Tini