Hrrmmmm. I’m attempting to brainstorm idea for a new writing project—something other than just blogging and journaling (especially since for me, there’s really no difference between the two)—but I can’t think of any. Weirdly, lately I’ve been dying to be taking classes again so that I would have assigned essays to write (I know; I’m a masochist)—but really, some of my best writing has been the product of a class assignment. Hell, even taking notes again during a lecture would be such a welcome break from this creative monotony I seem to be in the midst of. Ugh. Christ, I miss college.
I’ve been writing periodic book reviews/critiques over the past eight months or so, but even that’s beginning to lose its charm. As much as I love sharing good books with people, I’m craving a more personal project, something that has relevance on a somewhat deeper level. I’ve been vaguely considering giving memoir-style essays a chance again; it’s been at least a year since I’ve written anything of that sort, but then I have all these worries like, a) what would I write about, b) it’s been a hell of a long time since anything of interest happened in my life, what makes me think that I would even find anything worth writing about? I mean, the last important crisis of my life was over two years ago; I feel that the window has sort of passed on that one. And really, if I’m being honest, am I kidding that I can write about being a formerly fucked-up adolescent forever? I mean, god, who wasn’t, at some point? Granted, most girls probably weren’t nineteen and pregnant, with over a hundred scars to their name, but still. There are only so many ways I can tell that story before it begins to feel stale, and I think I’ve already found them all. Also, I can’t help but feel that writing about my current situation (unemployed, broke, and struggling to scrape by month to month) would feel entirely too much like whining about how much life sucks, and that’s not the angle I want to be coming from (or to have my writing perceived as). But, at the same time, it’s not like I can write stories about rainbows and butterflies—unless I want to call it fiction. Conundrum, indeed.
I can’t deny though, that there is a part of me that wants to revisit some of the more horrific aspects of my past, simply for the fact that self-mutilation and abortion are both subjects that are usually considered too taboo to be shared with polite society. Also, I know that when I was going through it, I searched in vain for stories from other girls who had faced what I was about to; there’s a part of me that wants to write out my experiences simply in the hope that someone else could perhaps find solace in them.
Well. I’ve been sitting here saying that I’m brainstorming, but I guess it seems as if I had already made up my mind before I began. I have a bit of apprehension, in attempting to write about something that happened so long ago, even vivid as the details may be (truthfully, that’s what scares me: that I’ll go to start writing, and find that my memories from that time aren’t as clear as I thought they would be)—but I also feel like it could be a worthy pursuit.