Well I’m pretty unhappy with myself at the moment. I can’t believe it’s been over 2 months since I last posted.
Here’s the problem… and it’s about time I admitted this to myself, in writing. Heck I’m a writer. I write every day (restrictions apply): In my journal, in my story, with my copywriting, even if it’s just making a to-do list at work, or writing emails, shopping lists, recipes, directions… Man, if I start categorizing “writing” like that I could probably take out my restrictions… you know holidays, outdoor adventure days (I could use one of those) or whatever prevents me from putting words onto paper. As a writer I think it’s pretty obvious that when I’m working through a problem or issue that I have with myself, the best way for me to acknowledge and work on it is to put it in writing.
I feel an epiphany blossoming, but not like those new, out of the blue epiphanies when you’ve got no idea where the thought even came from. This is more like a well rehearsed, carefully thought out epiphany that’s decided to slam down the front door and say HEY! I’M HERE BITCHES. And it’s so simple.
To keep myself on track I need to put it in writing.
Put it in writing.
Hmm. That doesn’t sound so hard…not at all. With the fear of going off on a tangent, I was in my sketchbook yesterday working on a logo design for a friend. I was flipping through the pages to find myself a fresh spot and I realized that most of my sketchbook is in fact writing. It’s a sketchbook of words and ideas, supplemented with visual imagery. It made me almost sad for a minute, like I’m not a good artist or something, but then it made me think: I guess what I do most is writing. Before drawing. Before reading. Before anything. Writing is what I do.
Writing is my passion.
It’s what I’ve been doing since before I could remember. I have boxes of stories written out on loose leaf paper, some even tied together with string and with pictures drawn in. I have gigabytes upon gigabytes of memory of fiction stories, essays, papers, etc. I have a stack of journals and dream diaries that I’ve been keeping for years and years. My life is an endless amount of writing. And when I think back, and think about what I do with my time, it’s never felt like I’ve been writing all that much. It’s never felt like I spent time in my daily life writing. It’s because all the time I spend writing is so natural. It comes naturally, flows naturally and acts naturally. It is my life, naturally spent.
That kind of thinking blows me away sometimes, but the point I’m trying to make with myself is that I take things more seriously when I’ve put them into writing. It helps my brain process exactly what I mean and what I’m expecting to get out of a situation. It helps me focus.
Writing this entry will probably help me stick with my goal of posting on here more. It’s not that I’m not writing, it’s that I’m just writing in other places. I’m writing everywhere. But if I can acknowledge and focus that writing power that seems to flow so effortlessly then maybe, just maybe I can keep on top of this blog, for me.
I love learning about myself. Today, I recognized something very special. And it didn’t happen last night or hours earlier in the morning. I literally came to terms with this in the past fifteen minutes, since I started writing this post. And seriously, if I put it in writing the chances are I’m going to remember the way I felt. And that, truly, is what motivates me.