When I was in the second grade, my teacher Mrs. Ford decided that it would be a great learning experience for all of her students to write their own stories, split the stories up into pages, and illustrate each page with their own markers and crayons (and let’s be real, snot and dirt, too). She would then take those pages, laminate them and bind them together, and let us give them to our parents as gifts at the end of the year. It was a great way to get our young minds working, and a great way for us to saddle our parents with yet another little-kid memento to cry over when we headed off to college.
I remember thinking this was the coolest thing on the planet-cooler than the Pokemon cards my older cousin had given me; cooler than Kenya, which I had just done a report on and thought was the coolest place ever because it had elephants; even cooler than staying up late and watching Ren and Stimpy when I was TOTALLY NOT ALLOWED TO DO THAT. So I sat down at my desk and began to write, and write, and write.
At the end of the year, most kids had about six or seven books to give to their beaming parents. I had twenty-two.
Writing has always kind of been my thing. My freshman year of high school, part of our final English grade was to write a sonnet in under an hour. Mine took about twelve minutes, and I got full credit. When my friends used to panic about the essays we had to turn in for class, I was usually the one who sat down at seven the night before it was due, threw my ideas into a coherent five pages of complete and total bullshit, and called it a night by ten. Imagine their fury when our grades would come back and I’d score several points higher on a paper I barely even remembered writing, and now you’ll understand why I see writing as my thing. You want to trip me up? Hand me a math problem. I’ll be out of commission for weeks.
So what never really made sense to me was the fact that I didn’t keep a diary. I never stored a journal under my pillow, full of my secret crushes on Nick or Kurtis or whoever happened to be the shyest cute boy in the class. I had notebooks strewn about in my room, with a monologue written on the first few pages or a poem scribbled on the back cover, but never anything consistent or really, coherent. Even as I got older and I began my love affair with all things Internet, I never really considered keeping a blog.
Except here i am, starting a blog, and not really sure how to go about doing so.
I don’t want this introduction post to go on for too long, so I guess I’ll just kind of outline what I figure I’ll be writing about here.
1. Photo Challenge. I’m actually a huge fan of those photo challenges where you take one photo a day and post about why it’s significant. I’d like to add a written element, too, in order to make things interesting.
2. Current events and world issues. I just graduated from college with a degree in International Relations, and I really like to just read about what’s going on in our world. I also tend to have a lot to say about those things, and not a lot of people who are willing to listen. SO. Surprise, captive audience!
3. My yearly goals. I’ve been slacking on what I’ve been trying to accomplish in my life, especially since I’ve graduated and have to pretend to be a real person now, and I figure if I talk about it out loud that’s a form of motivation to get my behind in gear. I’ll elaborate more on those as they come up.
4. My feels. I’m what you could call overly empathetic, or (as my friends so charmingly call it), “a big ol’ bag of feels.” Writing should help me sort through the hundreds of thoughts running through my head, and also maybe will help people understand why I think the way I do. Not that I really expect people to read this, but it’s a nice thought.
Maybe this will be just another half-filled virtual notebook with some doodles scribbled in the margins. Maybe it’ll be another procrastination tool in my arsenal of internet distractions. But maybe, just maybe, someone will take a look at this and help me get my thoughts laminated and bound for others to enjoy. It’s a nice thought, after all, and my parents could put it next to my second-grade books on the shelf.
Whatever this is, it’s me. I hope you like it.