The Purpose of the Blog

I'm so damn sick of talking about writing and getting nothing written.  I call myself a writer.  When the ego swells, I'll call myself an author, too.  But the last novel I finished was in 2005, at the age of 17.  It's 2011.  I'm 22 now.  I can't even say that I'm "resting on my laurels," because what sort of pathetic laurel is Harvest, anyway?  It's trash.  So I'm coasting on my past success, and that success was garbage.  What does that say about me?

Don't answer that.  Please.


I used to love writing.  I think I've been going about this the wrong way the whole time.  In recent years, I've started a dozen attempts to reignite my writing life, and every one has failed.  I told myself I was scared of the blank page, which is true.  I told myself that I'd gained my editor eyes and had trouble writing less-than-perfect prose, which was also true.  But the part that I never managed to notice (despite the fact that everyone else noticed it) is that I just didn't love writing anymore.  I knew I loved the idea of writing.  I knew I wanted to be an author.  But I had somehow forgotten the critical part where you truly enjoy the process of creating, playing in your mental sandbox.  I forgot how much fun it can be to take a handful of ideas and smash them together like trying to spark a fire from flint and steel.  I remembered how to write for a purpose, and how to express myself, but I forgot about the literary version of a joy ride -- not an attempt to get somewhere, but for entertainment.  I was writing for the purpose of getting things written.  I started things so that I could get to the end.  That's rubbish!  The point of writing is the writing.  That's all it needs.


So that's what I'm posting here.  This is my attempt to love writing again.  It used to be what I did with all of my time.  It was my preferred hobby, and my own mind was my best friend.  (Don't quote me on that).  So for a little while, this is my sandbox.  As Ms. Frizzle used to say, "Take chances.  Make mistakes.  Get messy!"

Two weeks ago, Haven went to the dog park.  She found the nastiest patch of mud in the whole place and proceeded to wallow in it until she honestly didn't look like a dog anymore.  Her fur was plastered to her body in dirt-covered dreadlocks, her ears were slicked to her head, and her tail was wagging like she'd never had so much fun in her life.  I want that feeling.  This is my attempt to claim it.