The Art of Cringe

However much I dislike cool kid slang, I have to admit, sometimes it really is the best describer.

Reading some of my entries in this blog definitely are... cringy... to say the least.

It's been a few years. And while on a time line  that doesn't seem like much, in reality it feels like I've evolved into a different species. From the moment of that last post until now, my world has completely changed.

I've always enjoyed writing, but never had the discipline to write with the intent to really hone it as a craft. I've had peers who I admire deeply for their rigor and tenacity and always improving their writing. Sometimes I have the itch to write, but mostly not. I think that's ok.

I can't tell exactly if a blog... this blog is meant for me to have a platform to speak about my ideas or to have a space where I can share myself. Probably a little of both. The things I enjoy writing about the most probably aren't what will get the most views and comments, but I care about them and that's the point. Introspection is important. Writing has always been the easiest way for me to process and organize my thoughts and feelings.

So... alright. That's what I'll do. Write when I feel like it. Not feel bad about not writing. Be more authentic. Be less... cringy. 

My kids would be so proud, using cool kid slang appropriately n' junk...

Writing through the years

I've always had a particular fondness for words. I remember so clearly the first day of 3rd grade when Mrs. Case introduced the first "Word of the Day." It was "essential." Part of me is amazed that I still remember this after well over a decade, but knowing the things my brain holds onto, it's not surprising at all.

When I was in middle school, I used to write short stories in little spiral notebooks with Lisa Frank or puppies on the cover. I'd never finish, but I almost always began with vivid imagery setting the scene for some adventure my protagonist would journey through.

In high school, I began writing a screen play, purely for fun, to capture the frivolity and fun of my teenage years. I wrote "Friends Abort" with help from two of my closest friends. Senior year, I shot the film, edited it and premiered it at a friend's birthday party to about a dozen or so of our friends.

Then I discovered the world of blogging. I'd write about what I did that day, something that was bothering me, a movie I just saw, or some grand epiphany. Another blog I write is dedicated purely to things that I hear people say that make me laugh.

This past summer, I took a short story writing class, partly for fun, partly to hone my skill as a writer. I wrote so many pieces I was proud of, but at the same time oddly protective. I loved to reread my stories, but I never really wanted to share them with the world. I was pushing myself as a writer and started to become self-consious of my work because I couldn't figure out where these stories were coming from in my head. In the past, I wouldn't write anything until I had a solid idea of what it was going to be about. In this class, I learned to just write. I stopped deleting and started to just let the words flow. Sometimes what I produced was utter shit, but sometimes it was brilliant.

Over the years that bring me to the present, I've struggled to actually finish any piece of writing I am truly proud of. I publish a blog post and I feel the urge to edit away or delete the thing altogether, or I start a short story but end up unhappy with the direction it flows, or I write a poem that I never want to see again. But I think this is just the curse of the writer. A writer spills her guts in everything she writes. It's personal, it's her voice, even if it's just a note on the whiteboard, directions on how to do something or a fictitious short story.

I think I have found solace in the fact that I'll never be happy with anything I write. It's never going to be perfect, but that's what makes it beautiful.

Thinking, listening, writing

Sitting here, in the darkness. Nothing but me, my computer screen and the melodic musings of Mos Def. There's a light from the kitchen. Other than that, nothing. It's nice. Nothing is nice. Like an escape from everything. The noise, the talk, the chatter. Nothing is quiet. Not quiet silent, but quiet like I can hear myself think, ponder. 

Thinking.

Listening.

Writing.

It's only everything I've ever wanted. A momentary pause from the game of life. Like getting to just be. Just be human. A spirit within a body. A ghost inside a machine. With eyes to see, ears to listen. A brain to think. Fingers to feel the keys click underneath my finger tips. Moments like these make me excited to be alive. Brimming with thoughts, ideas. What's in store for tomorrow? More living. More new. More wonder. It's good. It's only everything I've every wanted.

Why yes, I am fabulous, thanks for noticing

Tuesday. What can I say about a Tuesday? It's not a horrible Monday, trying to get re-acclimated to actually getting up and to class. And it's no Friday, the day I'm freed from the week day grind. It's just a Tuesday. The same old same old. I guess though, today was interesting...

My roomie (pictured left[I'm sure she'd be thrilled knowing I posted this picture of her]) and I have decided to conduct a sort of experiment this week. Every night we will be going to bed at or before midnight. This is quite the task considering "normal" for us is usually well into 2am. The catch is, we'll get up every morning at 7. Just for reference, Kimberly usually wakes up at 8, me at 9. Last night was the first day of our experiment and it went well without a hitch! I was awake, but decided to lie in bed and listen to some music. Kimberly actually got up and did some work around the dorm. We both felt great today and were more awake than normal. Perhaps we'll put this into practice longer than just this week. Who knows?

I finally had my featured writer day in English 111 (Composition in Short Fiction). I have been nervous for it ever since I found out about it, so for approximately 7 weeks. It went well though. I always seem to surprise myself when I reread my essays. For the better that is. The topic I chose to write on was a quotation from the short story "Schroedinger's Cat" that explored a sort of philosophical question not unlike the one about if a tree falls in the forest but nobody is around to hear, does it make a sound? Anyway, it was decent. I wrote about how science teaches us that seeing is believing and that the interpretation of our sensations dictates what we believe. Since the overlying theme in the whole story is about certainty, it was easy to tie this in. Any way, yeah, I was relatively proud of myself.

Lunch at the HUB (Husky Union Building for those non-UWers) with Kimberly.

Rehearsal with the TCC (Tacoma Community College for those non-Tacomans) Jazz Band tonight. Stevens, our director, really had us playing. I mean, I was feeling tired before the halfway mark. We ran through some songs for our gig tomorrow at Clover Park Community College (go figure) on top of the set list for our concert Saturday with John Moak. It was a killer. But I still managed to get through hitting high c's and d's on the way. You know me, never passing an opportunity to brag. It was a good night.

I leave you tonight with my favorite quote of the day, because we all know I am way too much of a quote whore to only have one favorite:

"Every fight is a food fight when you’re a cannibal."
-- Demetri Martin