Wow.
Its been 5 months and 5 days since I posted anything. I have been writing, but not nearly as much as I feel I should have. I've lived a lot of wild adventures, random stories to be sure. Now they exist and can only be shared in the perspective of what my mind has hard-wired, rather than more of an immediate "limbic" response. Frankly, I don't even know if I want to tell it. I do not know if I have time. I wonder who would even give a damn, other than me.
But taking a look at my writing, I can reflect with two points. First: I'm proud of myself for focusing and concentrating on doing some serious exposition. Second: I do not think my writing sucks; grammatically, syntax and the lexical nature of it is fine. But it lacks a certain style, it reeks of someone who is trying too hard. It needs serious work - and I have done little such work since being laid off in April.
As of late I have felt compelled to really think about how I want my life to be defined. The question "Who am I?" peers down at me when I wake up, and is my first conscious breath when I wake up. In fact, not unsurprisingly, my dreams are filled with wanderlust, familiar worries and strange combinations of new environmental settings and job-announcements. I think this compelling force is spurred on by, first and foremost, the fact that I have so much opportunity but no real direction. Second, I, like many Americans, are provoked by all of the recent high-profile deaths. The lives of Michael Jackson, Senator Teddy Kennedy, his late sister, and Robert Novak were remarkable. Their deaths, which are really a cause to celebrate their lives, make me ponder what it is I would want people to say about me when I no longer exist on this plain.
One of the ways I would like people to view me, is as a writer - a contributor to the unique tradition of wordsmithing. As they say: you know how you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice.
With that, I am going to bed. I have an incredibly busy day from here on out. Ah the life of a semi-employed, homesick recent-transplant to Washington D.C. with high hopes and aspirations and no real clue which path to take in life. Perhaps my story will some day flow out, depending on if I can think of an interesting way to write it.
Its been 5 months and 5 days since I posted anything. I have been writing, but not nearly as much as I feel I should have. I've lived a lot of wild adventures, random stories to be sure. Now they exist and can only be shared in the perspective of what my mind has hard-wired, rather than more of an immediate "limbic" response. Frankly, I don't even know if I want to tell it. I do not know if I have time. I wonder who would even give a damn, other than me.
But taking a look at my writing, I can reflect with two points. First: I'm proud of myself for focusing and concentrating on doing some serious exposition. Second: I do not think my writing sucks; grammatically, syntax and the lexical nature of it is fine. But it lacks a certain style, it reeks of someone who is trying too hard. It needs serious work - and I have done little such work since being laid off in April.
As of late I have felt compelled to really think about how I want my life to be defined. The question "Who am I?" peers down at me when I wake up, and is my first conscious breath when I wake up. In fact, not unsurprisingly, my dreams are filled with wanderlust, familiar worries and strange combinations of new environmental settings and job-announcements. I think this compelling force is spurred on by, first and foremost, the fact that I have so much opportunity but no real direction. Second, I, like many Americans, are provoked by all of the recent high-profile deaths. The lives of Michael Jackson, Senator Teddy Kennedy, his late sister, and Robert Novak were remarkable. Their deaths, which are really a cause to celebrate their lives, make me ponder what it is I would want people to say about me when I no longer exist on this plain.
One of the ways I would like people to view me, is as a writer - a contributor to the unique tradition of wordsmithing. As they say: you know how you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice.
With that, I am going to bed. I have an incredibly busy day from here on out. Ah the life of a semi-employed, homesick recent-transplant to Washington D.C. with high hopes and aspirations and no real clue which path to take in life. Perhaps my story will some day flow out, depending on if I can think of an interesting way to write it.
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