I need boundaries and visible yellow lines. Road maps. Signs. You can cross. No, no. It’s not safe to cross this line now.
Without them, I tend to wander in unorganized circles, my ideas ending up as mental road kill on life’s endless racetrack-sucked in and away by time’s occasional emotional exhaust.
As a result, my writing tends to suffer as my brain scatters until I ultimately realize that it is up to me to readjust and redefine just where I am headed.
Up until this point, I have preferred to write in overly exaggerated vignettes. Column style. I like columns because as soon as that green flag waves you can already see that checked flag at the end so long as you stay on course. The typical exaggerated nature of my writing, however, is much easier for me psychologically because most notes are far less personally revealing. Though I aspire to be a memoirist and would consider myself something of an open book, I am also an intensely private person. That is, I am cautious to reveal too much detail unless it is completely toasted and buttered in fatty exaggeration. That said, I’ll be the first person to spill my entire life story but that is typically to act as a catalyst in order to get you to, well, tell me about you. When it comes down to it, I am much more interested in you than I am in my own personal details.
Admittedly, I have also found the concept of overtly personal ‘blogs’ to be an incredibly selfish pursuit, a higher form of electronic begging, similar to the way my dogs will sit longingly at my feet, tails wagging, their head strategically placed on my knee while staring up at me with those big doggie eyes that seem to ooze, ‘pay attention to meeeee.’
Like any novice writer, I am a reluctant beginner. I have an almost obsessive compulsive disorder of narrating events, even the most menial, in my head. Yet, once they transform from brain humidity to inky dewdrops on paper, I promptly erase them-insecurity taking over. Oh, I do very much hate vulnerability. It’s practically a four-letter word I run screaming from in my life.
Far too often I fear that we (in general) listen to that voice in our head that hisses, ‘you’re not good/funny/smart enough’ even when it continues past the mature age of nearly thirty, forty, fifty, sixty…. How many of us have wanted to share something and then paused at the intrudingly weedy thought, “well, why would anyone care about what I have to say? Just who the heck do I think I am?”
This tendency can be arsenic to the writer; a poisonous thought process that I have readily consumed in spoonfuls. The only way for me to get around this insecurity is pepper it with some sort of comedy or spin. I’m entirely uncomfortable taking myself even remotely seriously in text if I fear that my opinion may either outright offend someone or reveal too much of my heart. True, I do tease and welcome teasing-based on my daily interactions with, well, everyone - I would be a shut-in if I didn’t openly embrace people lovingly (hopefully) referring to me as nuts.
But if said teasing cuts too close to my insecurities I will never, ever forget it.
Like the time an older boy in my biology class told me I had bad breath. Many years later, (read: after running into him in a bar in Wrigleyville) I found out that this was his adolescent manner of flirting, but I was so horrified I brushed my teeth roughly ten times a day for years afterward and was never caught dead without a pack of Trident. Or the time that a male friend of my high school boyfriend told me (despite years and years of painful orthodontia including, but not limited to, a crank I had installed in the roof of my mouth intended to create spaces between my teeth) that the real reason he had broken up with me had been because my front teeth were slightly crooked.
As a reference to my tendency in the paragraphs above, I feel compelled to note that said high school boyfriend is and has always been a thoughtful, charmingly non-superficial individual.
But whether it had any basis in truth didn’t seem to matter, it was simply a confirmation of my very real insecurity.
Yet aside, I recall nearly every instance of childhood and teenage bullying to which I have been the target in my entire life, which perhaps means that I am extraordinarily lucky. Or, that I have an incredibly good recall for pain.
On the evil other hand, in the ‘blogosphere’ world, there are far too many of those that have intentionally muted that voice. And I (of all people) read them thinking, “who the hell cares that you had a turkey sandwich for lunch and also, it’s you’re not your, for chrissake.’ And yes, I also criticize twelve-year-old pop stars that ‘pen’ (used loosely) memoirs. I don’t care about your hair gel or your stage fright. Live a little, kid and come back to me after you’ve got some real stories, like your impending meth addiction and subsequent three day stint in LA County Jail. Then maybe, just maybe, I’ll read about your book. On Wikipedia.
In many aspects, however, a grammatically judgmental individual who cares little for the trivial details that reveal no roots of psychological undergrowth has little business being a writer. Like a sinner convinced all others are committing similar sins against him or her, it is nothing if not self-paralyzing.
My idea of writing more of a personal blog, however, came two-fold. First, I recently discovered the blog of an individual, Leon, with whom I attended high school. Not only does he offer an incredibly personal account of his life, it is also absolutely hilarious and insightful, and perhaps even more important, fearless. I truly believe that writers such as Leon are a gift to us all because their writing has the ability to reach out to us at any time of day and tell us, ‘you’re not alone, because I feel this way, too.’ Not every one will relate and there will always be bullies, but some will be wonderfully affected and there’s a deep satisfaction in both understanding and feeling understood.
Second, absolutely every tried and true published author I have either known personally or have cornered in a desperate attempt to hear some magic turn of phrase has bestowed upon me the same advice: Write every day. Set aside even thirty minutes to write something, anything.
This fairly simple advice has proved to be one of the most excruciatingly difficult tasks I’ve ever attempted. I will ultimately set this goal, but if the juice isn’t flowing, I will find my mind wandering away from me like a wayward helium balloon, catching in branches of errands and unanswered emails. In a writer’s zone, a tree could fall on my house, breaking through the roof and landing roughly two centimeters from my head and I will not notice. If I’m not feeling the zone, however, I will hear a cicada burrowing in the backyard from a half propped open window in my bedroom and immediately set out on a journey of discovery on cicadas and their potential to spread disease. Frustration.
Which is why I created this blog. It is a 100% selfish journey where the purpose is, ironically, to get me to sit still while concurrently moving within my own boundaries. In the absence of any conceivable road maps and yellow lines, I’ve decided to paint my own. Similar in nature to the Project 365’s I have seen pop up on social media sites, I have been inspired by the dedication and results. (Side-note: I would hyperlink my friend Meg’s as a reference, but I fear she’d kill me for blasting the world wide web with personal photographs of her too-cute-for-words children).
Though no one may notice, I suppose I will when my ‘thirty-minute’ writing exercise takes the form of an electronically published grocery list. Ideally, after some time I’ll have enough ideas to finally pour the foundation for this first novel. As it stands now, my ‘book’ is nothing more than a few mediocre, unedited vignettes book-ended by typewritten pages that appear eerily similar to Jack Nicholson’s in ‘The Shining.’
In essence, I could achieve the same by writing in a private journal, but I am terrible at journaling. Most of what I have later come to find written in my diaries is so completely cringe-worthy that the idea that I could mine even a tiny nugget of gold amid the thick clay of my thoughts isn’t even comedic. It’s pathetic.
Case in point. My parents have been moving out of my childhood home and to a state north of where I was raised. While cleaning out my bedroom, I came across my first diary. The contents were frightening. Written with a multi-colored pencil on an angled slant with no regard to the lines was the following:
April 5, 1992:
Hi Diary! My name is Katie Dolack. I am ten. My best friend is Cat. She is pretty. We like trolls. We are popular.
May 10, 1992:
Well Diary. Every one hates me. All I have is my dog, Bumbles. She will probably die soon. Also, my dad killed my lizard by leaving it in the greenhouse and it was crispy and fried.
The entries stop for nearly one year after these two. Clearly, these insights do not reveal the budding notes of a precocious young writer poised to win a future Pulitzer. On the contrary, the entries suggest an impending battle with depression or perhaps a gradual spiral into schizophrenia.
In retrospect, the story behind the lizard is pretty funny, but I’ll save that for another time.
So, if you’re looking for a specific entry on say, the best soil to plant a sunflower seed, how to paint a dormer in a small room in order to make the space appear larger or helpful suggestions on where to play in Fredericksburg, Virginia or Washington DC, it is quite likely my blog will not help you out. In fact, just knowing I live in these areas will probably make you want to avoid them entirely. Unless you’re down with wanting to know where the crazy peeps hang out; I’m like a bright and waving lighthouse in the storm for those suffering from eccentric and oft-undiscovered mental illnesses.
However, much like the television shows I’ve been responsible for producing in my day, if you’re looking for some mindless entertainment, or let’s be honest, something that will either scare the daylights out of you or make you feel better about yourself (either because you relate or probably more commonly because it helps you realize that you possess more sanity than one twenty something gal out there) this is your place! A tidy little nook on the internet that encourages psychological catharsis. Well, mine anyway. But, I warned you.
Frighteningly, it’s entirely possible that my current energized take on internet journaling will reveal a similar fate, but I suppose I could always reassure myself that I will be in good company. Many of the greatest writers have ended up penniless alcoholics, dying in a gutter after a nasty case of syphilis spread to their brain. In that light, it could always be worse.
Crooked front teeth and all.
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