For well over a decade, now, I've kept a journal. What began as a place to rant about mean teachers and dwell upon true love has, for the last few years, become one of very few outlets for my ideas, opinions, and ramblings. Although I usually stick to pen and paper, I've tried to blog in the past. In fact, since 2000, must have started at least 15 online journals/blogs. They've all been abandoned and forgotten, for various reasons, and yet I'm sure to begin at least one more before the year is out.
I don't know what draws me to the blogs, exactly. Perhaps it is the anonymous feeling of voicing concerns, telling secrets, or just blathering on and on without the likelihood of any “real life” people recognizing you within the words on the screen. Then again, I've also harbored the small hope of being recognized not for my mindless spewing of words, but for my raw genius, and becoming a celebrity of the blogosphere. The chance is slim to none, and even more unlikely given my blogging track record.
Still, I return again and again to my journal. The style of my entries vary. At times, all I can manage to scribble down is a loosely related list of ideas, happenings, and things I'd like to discuss further but for some reason or another never do. Other entries become long, drawn-out, letters to no one in particular. These different types of entries are intertwined with phrases, ideas and quotes I've come across and hoarded away, in a sort of copy-book way. Some entires have month-long gaps between them, while others are only a few hours apart.
On occasion, I've used my journaling habits as a weapon. The strange man at the coffee shop will bother you far less if you're engrossed in your writing. I hope my fellow coffee consumers think I'm an up-and-coming writer, of sorts, whose words are unmatched. Lofty hopes, I know.
It could happen, though, if I really dedicated myself to the cause. In the last year or so I've chanced upon a few very nice, personalable American authors, whom I now consider to be members of my circle of friends. It's both inspiring and degrading to be friends with published writers. Both motivating and embarassing (which are not as opposite as I first thought). I'd like to “try my hand” at writing once life slows down a bit. For years I've been telling this to myself and anyone else nearby, but life seems to become busier. I'm beginning to realize that it will never actually make room for my other interests, and that I need to force aside less important “needs” in order to reach my goals.
If only I could live off of crumbled bits of paper and old pens. I'd just quit my job and secure a permanent place at the coffee shop.