The written word and I… we have a strange and wonderful relationship. When it exists at all, I suppose. I’ve gotten so out of the habit that when I find that I want to write about something, I’m too tired or too busy or too… something. It’s like finding excuses for not going to the gym, but the difference being that I love writing and I do not love working out. Working can be satisfying, don’t get me wrong, but I have yet to find it addictive. I keep thinking that if my attempts to start running would get anywhere, then I could do it quickly. But if I start up too fast, I mess up a recurring injury in my foot.
After the end of the school year, I was so tired of writing, that I wouldn’t have dreamed of blogging about it. Besides, hadn’t my blog readers heard about my last three vacations where nothing happened at all? Or just listened to me complain about my schoolwork?
But I have no excuse now that school has been out for some time, and summer is halfway over. I’ve recovered from the swampedness that comes with taking a history class, a literature class, a fiction writing class, and a theatre class that requires one long paper at the end of the semester. This next semester, I’ll have three history classes to get through, if nothing changes, and hopefully I will have adjusted to the new keyboard on my new laptop by then. My brother swore I’d like it, but after a month, I still miss my HP keyboard. How does a bigger keyboard not space the keys out any further? I feel cramped.
The one thing that occasionally makes me want to begin writing and jabbering again is when I read a favorite book, and feel like stating some marvelously individual opinion about it. I missed my opportunity during exam week, because I was rereading Little Women, but really did NOT have any time to write about my opinion of the Professor Bhaer versus Laurie question. In case you’re wondering, I’m pro-Professor Bhaer, and do not quote Christian Bale at me, because Laurie in the book is nothing like Laurie in the movie, and as much as I love the movie, it’s wrong.
However, that is another rabbit trail that I shall avoid. My thoughts are running along with the books of L.M. Montgomery and I’m almost finished reading Emily’s Quest, the third of the Emily trilogy. But even that, I wonder if I should write about it or not. Any reader of Montgomery (yes, as in Anne of Green Gables) will have their favorites of her books. And I wouldn’t want any critique of the Emily books to be seen as a dislike of Emily herself, because I have friends who named their daughters after her.
What am I trying to say? Reading the books about Montgomery’s authoress heroine makes me think about her need to write, rather than feeling like complaining about why the Pat books are my favorite (sorry, I love Hilary Gordon more than Teddy Kent, if you must know). I have always empathized with Emily’s writing struggles, but as I grew up, I realized that my need to write isn’t quite as… visceral as hers. Is that the right word? Seems appropriate. I fully understand the need to write something out, but I can be much lazier about it than Emily ever was, probably because I have e-mail and other things to use to communicate with people. Who knows?
Anyone who loves to write can empathize with Emily Byrd Starr, but we’re not all cut from the exact same jib. My need or interest in writing comes in spurts. Or I just haven’t found the story that I want to tell again. It’s been a long time since I’ve had any story to tell that could be remotely like the ones I told about Australia.
This is probably a very confusing post. Maybe I’ll eventually figure myself out. And my writing, too. But don’t I just long to find the story that has to be told, once more. You know, the one that I have to tell, no matter what.