I had an annoying stutter when I was a kid, so I learned early on the power of the written word. In 2nd grade my favorite activity was when we were given a blank sheet of paper and told to write a story. It was the possibility of it all that excited me; the blank page staring back at me like a field of fresh snow, and I could forge any path I wanted. Yes, I had that exact sensation as a 7-year old.
In 4th grade we were assigned to write a journal. We were required to write 2 sentences a day. A few months into the project we were instructed to pass our journals each one person to the right. I remember what I read in the journal from the boy on my left. Each day was identical. An example: "Today in social studies we read about the Yanomamas in the Amazon. In science we looked at rocks." Every day. The same exact two sentences.
My journal was inconsistent. Some days I wouldn't feel like writing and my two sentences would be, "Hi. Bye." Other days I'd write page after page of sprawling prose about my dog, my family, playing the piano. I was a pretty dramatic and emotional kid, so I imagine it was an interesting read. When we handed the project in, my teacher was so impressed with some of my entries she read them aloud to the class. Oh, Mrs. Borland. What were you thinking?
In my 20s, I got interested in journalling via Julia Cameron's book, The Artist's Way. It's very possible that Morning Pages saved my life and certain that they are partially responsible for a vast body of my creative work, either directly or indirectly. Here's a little ditty I penned in 2002 after a late spring snowstorm in the mountains of Colorado.
Wet cold and clump-like
Snow melts on the flower
Melts through the flower
The Old Man's last icy breath
Tends the spring like a shears
As if to say, "I'll be back."
His steely gray cloak covers the sky
And hides Spring's sun
As he whirls and turns to leave the room
Gone are the birds
Hiding are the bees, cupids for flowers
Cowering in their hovels, powerless against the cold
In hours they will rise again
Sing again
Buzzing in the Old Man's ear
Now I know there's nothing groundbreaking here. (The Old Man metaphor is particularly tired.) But there is an honest passion. A certain, albeit quiet, barbaric yalp.
The reason I'm writing about all of this is because I am working on a new website, a project that is requiring me to write a new bio, a description of my creative services and to write about my music. I'm finding it very difficult.
Is it a symptom of living in our culture of status updates and tweets? Maybe I'm just getting old. It has never been hard for me to write. Why is it difficult now? To be honest, I don't journal anymore. I'm just as apt to read facebook on the subway as I am to read a novel. I feel myself slipping, if I may be candid.
So I'm recommitting. I'm inspired by the blogs I read regularly like my friends here and here. At first I was going to exclude my blog from my new site, as I hardly every post to it. But I have decided to keep it, and I want to post to it more. What I like about my friends' blogs is that, because I know them, I can see their personalities in their words. I can hang out with them whenever I want to by reading their posts. I don't think it's a coincidence that they are both also very into music and food, as am I.
Words, music and food. I touch the second and third of this holy trinity every day. I intend to do more with the first - to write - and to try to do it well.
