You know, I never set out to be a writer.
I never really liked the process- the pen, the paper, the practice of being alone in my mind. Sitting with my thoughts felt–and feels–a lot like being squished between two people on a crowded subway car. Act normal. Don’t move much. It’ll be over soon.
It’s the perfectionist in me. The personality trait that makes me want to redo, rewrite, rethink almost everything I do. Do it over. You can do better. Once more.
I have a deep desire, the most urgent need, to execute tasks and tests and life in a way I’ll later smile upon. I think about now, the present, and then I think about how I’ll think about now in the future. In ten years, in twenty, will I be proud? Can I enjoy it then? Is there enough here to tell a life story that people will want to have been a part of? That I will want to have been a part of?
Is it ever acceptable to end sentences with prepositions? Get back to me.
What I found, in writing, can be summed in such perfection this way: “I hate writing, but I love having written.”
That speaks to me.
That is writing, articulated.
So then, it’s a funny thing to be blogging. Sharing words and images and hoping that what I click out on a keyboard is worth reading. In one year of doing it–putting myself online–I’ve never once felt entirely comfortable.
In many ways, I just don’t know if it’s in me to ever feel that what I’m doing is enough: good enough, meaningful enough, funny enough, engaging enough. I see challenge and room for improvement and ways to grow and perFECT. It’s not all bad. It’s not all good. Likely I’ll be driven, I’ll be [somewhat] ambitious, I’ll demand excellence of myself and others. But those will come at a cost. Maybe that cost will be too steep sometimes, and I simply won’t have the cash to cover it. Or maybe one day I’ll have enough ego coins in my piggy bank to not sweat it.
With blogging, it’s good to find a niche.
How do I find that?
What am I sharing here?
Why did I tell my mother on my last film job that I wanted to start blogging instead?
How do I justify taking off my clothes, so to speak, for thousands of people everyday and sharing the intimacy of having lived obesely for 20 years and then losing it all and living in thin for the next six? How do I describe going from size 22 to a 4/6? From apple to banana? What would it even matter? And what did I learn from it?
And, what I address over and over, and over, and over, and over (repeat three times more, please), is the root, the seed, of it all. My story, your story, anyone’s story–it doesn’t mean much when you look only at the ending.
I want to hear the beginning. You want to hear the beginning.
It informs the rest of the story.
And so I write with one eye on the rear view mirror, one eye on the road. Very aware of the periphery.
Years ago I heard a quote, from the movie Playing By Heart, and it’s stayed with me ever since. It goes,
“Talking about love is like dancing about architecture.”
It means it’s impossible. It means that no matter how you try, you won’t sum well the essence of love. And while I do agree that a great many things cannot be captured alphabetically and otherwise, sometimes a person explains a feeling I have or have had in a way that just speaks to my soul. Something feels true about it. Raw and pure and exactly how I’d say it if only I’d known those words, in that order, at that time.
Being able to put words to a feeling or a thought or even a time in your life is like hearing a fragment of a song over and over in your head, forgetting which song it is or which way the words go, only certain of the da-na-na-da, and then, all of a sudden, remembering.