The relationship between my journal and me, that is. My dear blog has rendered the old journal nearly useless, as I've shared before. However, there are those dark corners of my heart that still long to find their way onto paper. Why is that anyway? Does anyone else out there struggle with that need? Is it just the torment we writer-types face?
I mean, really, why can't I be drawn to put fiction on paper? You know, something that could actually entertain someone. Oooo...something that could earn some bank! Nope, fiction is not for me. Instead I spend two weeks face down in my little pink book only to spend two minutes tonight ripping a 20 page section of myself into tiny jagged squares of nonsense. I slip the random consonants and vowels into the kitchen trashcan, cover the remains with a box from tonight's trip to the grocery, and walk away as if that dark part of me has mysteriously been removed forever. Though never read by another soul, somehow the writing of it was useful.
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2 comments:
You are a great writer. I love the way you put your words.
I need to start a paper journal and just get all of the ugly stuff out but i'm kinda scared! and really scared if someone ever found it!
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