I’ve fallen out of the habit of writing.
It’s not that I don’t want to write, it’s just that sometimes I just don’t. The reasons are either because I don’t feel like it or I don’t have anything to say. Lately it’s because I hadn’t felt like it. And that’s a hard thing to admit. Why? Because you’re not supposed to admit that sort of thing. You always want to write, you just can’t because of obligations that keep you busy or family or travel or lack of ideas. Not because you don’t feel like it.
Well, I haven’t felt like it recently and thus I’ve fallen out of the habit and thus my ideas dried up. Because to be truthful, if you don’t force yourself to write daily or in some regularly fashion, then you’re writing ideas are going to dry up. This has been proven to me before. When I was in college, I took a class where we had to tap into our creativity. We used The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron to open ourselves up to our creative outlet (whatever that creativity might be.) One of the tools that Cameron used was to write three pages a day every day for 10 weeks. In those 10 weeks, I found myself dreaming more and having more ideas to write or photograph or whatever. I just felt more in tune with myself.
I…don’t do that anymore. Blogging, journaling or otherwise. I could never write three pages a day like that again, but it’s still important to do something, even if it’s to comment on the weather or the movies being watched.
Yesterday I finished watching The Ring and then listened to a docu-film about Charles Manson while I did chores. You know that weirdo who started a cult in the middle of the desert of California and killed Sharon Tate in order to start Helter Skelter or whatever it was that he was doing? Yeah…that dude was waaaay off base. And that’s an understatement, am I right? Since it’s October, I always feel obligated to watch darker films. Since high school, my dad and I watched a horror movie on Halloween. I still continue the obligation even though he’s no longer with us because it keeps me close to my dad. My handsome man doesn’t like scary movies, so I try to watch them when he’s not around so he doesn’t get spooked. But even then I don’t watch them as much as I used to. Different priorities and obligations now, I suppose.
A few weeks ago, I read The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah. It’s a good book, set in Alaska and focusing on an extremely dysfunctional family. Dad’s suffering from PTSD from being a POW in Vietnam, therefore he beats mom up and tries to prepare daughter for the apocalypse and all that stuff. Well, Dad has beef with the guy down the road and it gets to the point where he even forbids daughter from seeing the son of said guy. It’s a tough one to get through, but I enjoyed the book. The ending seems too neat and tidy after everything that happened in the book, but it somehow works.
Now I’m trying to read Midnight Sun by Stephenie Meyer. It’s…okay, I suppose. It’s better written than Twilight but it’s so hard to focus on the plot. I know what’s going to happen, so I’m not really interested in reading through it again. So I keep dropping it to read other books. Like, right now I’m reading Blue Jacket by Allan W. Eckert. Apparently, this book is a bit problematic now, because I guess Blue Jacket was never a white man, he was an Indian from birth and there’s been some mixed up documents that stated otherwise and thus the author used those to write his story. It’s an enjoyable read, but now that I’m older and know better, it’s a little slow. It’d be nice to know more about the real Blue Jacket.
Until next time, my friends. I hope I’m more interesting for you all in the next one!