Tag Archives: memories

Realizing all the while, you’ve been doing it wrong.

Once upon a time, I wrote a fantasy novel. I haven’t spent too much time on my specific works in this blog, mostly because I had intended on having another blog serve to deal with my “I’M A WRITER, DAMNIT!” thoughts. However, I’ve been in a weird sort of mood lately, and I really just want to talk about stories.

I didn’t start out writing fantasy when I decided writing was the craft for me. In fact, I was just a little obsessed with a time period of history/country called Ancient Egypt and writing a story set there. I was so obsessed that some of my early internet usernames were based upon characters in that novel series. I started that series when I was 17, finished the first book when I was 21, and started up the prequel (because writing out of order is just awesome, let me tell you). Then, the story just crashed and burned.

It wasn’t because the plot couldn’t sustain itself. It could, and I still hope that it can. However, the time of life I was entering, I found myself consumed with other things that distracted me further from the closeness I had experienced with the characters.

Two years later, after writing hundreds of poems, reading a dear friend’s own fantasy work, and trying to work through some visions of plot that danced in my head, I decided to start working on a fantasy novel. It started a lot smaller in scope, and now it sits as a waiting trilogy, but I really believed in the storyline and I admit, it was a lot of fun to write.

That’s the background. Now, here’s what I’m trying to get at.

A few posts ago, I wrote about going through some old writing, finding that 23 year old me, and reliving the past relationships that have since faded with time. I have struggled for years to get myself back into a writing sort of mood, and that Monday was a trigger moment. The following weekend, I actually worked on my writing. I was happy, but a little sad, too.

Since I left high school, writing wasn’t just about me getting whatever thoughts in my head out on paper, but rather a sort of social interaction I held with classmates, friends, other writers, and often, I would just spend an entire night talking about plot points, worries, and directions I wanted to take. It wasn’t selfish. I listened just as much as I talked. I spent countless hours with other creative people, letting the pulse of their own exploration inspire and motivate me to be bigger, better, and stronger as an artist.

I really enjoyed myself, reading the words I wrote about a decade ago, edited seven years ago, and wrote in a very changeable winter. But, part of what I missed was knowing I couldn’t really share that with anyone. I couldn’t do anything but pace the rooms of my house, whispering my thoughts on working through the bad areas of writing. It was a lonely process. I really didn’t like it.

This isn’t a foreign feeling. I’ve been struggling with it for the past seven years. Every time I went to write, that beautiful urge faded as I felt so alone with it. I wasn’t comfortable with the change, so I’d give up.

Yeah, self-inflicted writer’s block.

It doesn’t have to be that way. I don’t want to be that way. I’m sick of letting it be that way.

Time for a change.

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Posted by on 11/12/2013 in blogging, writing


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A spring and summer creating memories…

A few days ago, I updated my Facebook status describing how I found some old binders, notebooks, and folders with some writing and thoughts I had when I was finishing college, and learning how to move towards a goal of being a responsible adult. Now, over a decade later, I still can’t say I have figured out the adult thing, but I can say I’ve made progress.

I can admit I’m a bit of a pack rat. In some cases, I keep things because of sentimental value; maybe they remind me of an event, or maybe they just are things I believe I will eventually use. I tend to remember things vividly from years ago, and occasionally get a little too nostalgic due to that. So, if I have things that relate to a vivid memory, or signify a relationship of the past, I tend to keep it.

The other night, I came home from work and walked over to my overstuffed bookshelf. I thought I might have stashed some extra office/school supplies there that I could have taken to work to use for something. Instead, I started pulling out these binders, folders, and a notebook with a “title” written up on it in big sharpie handwriting. A part of me stared at disbelief as I had forgotten that I had stuffed these items away, intending to keep them for posterity.

I never found the supplies I thought I had. Instead, I found the 22/23 year old me, full of opinions, an awakening spirituality, and completely in love with writing. I found the imagination that I sometimes think has escaped from me as I’ve grown older, more mature, responsible. The kid part of me I strove to hold on to those years went down for a nap so long ago, and I wonder if she will ever wake up.

One of the notebooks was a journal a friend and I had kept my last summer at the job I had right out of college before the place went out of business. In the journal, my friend and I wrote about friendships (with coworkers and people we knew outside our little group), our philosophies and beliefs, poetry and short stories. Inside, I also used the notebook to detail out growing relationships I was making with people that, at the time, were consuming my world. In 2002, fresh out of college, optimistic that the world was at my feet, and boy, did I dream and want things bigger and grander than anything I ever did and got. Inside this one subject notebook, I poured out some of the biggest parts of who I was and what I wanted. Ironically, I also made promises and declarations in this notebook I later broke to myself. Ah, the mercurial me.

One of the best and worst parts of reading these materials this week was not the memory trip it conjured, but the realization that back then, so very few people knew me, or, for that matter, saw me. I have always been a bit of the quiet girl, keeping my feelings and emotions close. I can guarantee that some of the people closest to me in proximity knew nothing of what things I wrote, or believed, or hell, felt. The crushes, the falling in love, the intense spirituality building within me, centering me and giving me the confidence to believe, for once, I was okay. The knowledge that writing wasn’t just some hobby I liked to do on cold weather mornings, but an immense part of who I was as a person. And, the fact that writing brought to me so many connections to people so far away that matched my personality in ways I still can’t begin to explain to people. So many secrets back then. So much need for them.

Probably the best part of the trip down memory lane was the fact that I got to see my description of the beginning of one of the longest and fulfilling relationships of my adult life. Sure, living through that, I was aware of what I felt at the time, and what I personally saw, but writing it down for an audience outside of myself, I saw a bit of what I had forgotten about it. It was genuine, unintended, and fun. As it went, sometimes it hurt more than I could ever know things could hurt. But, it started as fun.

I need to get that back. That sort of fun. Ah, well…we shall see.

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Posted by on 11/08/2013 in blogging, writing


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Delving into the past…

Today, I opened up one of my mostly forgotten storage cupboards and started digging through the various things I had stashed away. The old saying is pretty true: If it’s not something that is regularly used or in your sight-line, it’s forgotten. I had stashed away some books from my childhood, some collectibles that I had no room to display, various knickknacks, and some old journals. It was the old journals that I pulled out to glance through. Except, I ended up reading every word and taking a deep, fast dive into my personal past.

There is something different about reading your own, personal words years after you penned them that strikes up a level of nostalgia no other “remembering” can. Sure, I can discuss the popular songs on the radio when I was a teenager with one of my coworkers, or an old tale describing my late grandfather’s infamous sense of humor, and have intense feelings of connection and understanding. You can beg advice from peers and elders on what to do, even knowing they experienced like things. It is, however, nothing like looking into the words a younger self wrote with the eyes of a person who lived those exact same experiences, but now have the wisdom of time to bring some clarity to the dilemmas and feelings of the past.

Today, I opened my journals not entirely sure what I was going to get. Like this blog and many other journals I’ve kept, I’m rather inconsistent with how often I write, what I write about, and as my friends will testify, when I get on a subject, for a while, I only talk about that one subject. These journals were no different.

Ten years, almost to the month, I began writing in a journal because I had been going through a bit of a growing crisis. To the outside world, I was probably just a sullen, quiet person who had pulled away. Inside, I was a mess and I had very few outlets to share this with. I was afraid of people’s judgment. I didn’t want to be called crazy. I didn’t want to be thought of as stupid. Fear ruled a huge part of my life, and because I was so scared of what my family would thing, I began to resent it. So, I wrote my thoughts down in a journal.

Reading back through, the first journals dealt with one of the first “loves” of my life. It was a very disappointing romantic adventure, and it involved a lot of deceit. After the brief exposition on that brief love affair, it moved on to conversations with friends I’d made, thoughts on how I was planning to run a writer’s board, and later, a development of a relationship with one of the aforementioned friends.

Delving into this time in my life, I felt like I had been slugged with a baseball bat of emotion. The intensity of the words I used to describe how I felt about someone, a situation were so real, it was as if I had jumped back in time. I wrote about conversations I had with friends, but I did not need to write what was said to know which conversation I referenced. And of course, just reading brought back the memories of what it felt like to love, be loved, to be scared about feeling just that much.

Of course, my relationship with that friend has moved on, and we remain friends to this day. While I’m not “In Love” anymore, I still love this person. I always will. It was a one-in-a-lifetime feeling, and I know that now. I know that from seeing how deep to the core of me it had been in my writing. The journals covered four years of my life, including a period where I was unemployed and depressed, thinking I was a failure, to optimism and hope that things were looking up when I finally got a job.

Amongst the journals were other books I had written in, little “About Me” guides I’d purchased where I could do the ‘baby book’ information dump for people to read in the future and get a glimpse of who I was. I read through those books as well, amazed at how early I had developed beliefs I now hold strong and fast to, as well as how very few of the core aspects of those beliefs have changed. I was impressed with how insightful I was when it came to family and friend dynamics. It encouraged me to believe that I still am able to see into the intimate parts of an issue and pick out the important considerations when my advice is asked.

Today offered me a hard look into who I was ten years ago. Often, if something is recorded in some media form, we have only our memories and our perception and interpretation of those memories to decide how things were. Reading through my journals told me how things were. It was refreshing to see I wasn’t far off when relying on memory alone.

Even more, it amazes me that it was ten years ago that I met someone who infinitely changed my life. I became a better writer, a better friend, and through the failure of our relationship, a better person. I learned what insecurity and jealousy can wreak on a relationship, as well as the power of forgiveness. I understand what true love is. I know what a soul mate is and how it feels when you meet him/her. I also know how it is to move on from a break-up and remain friends, and yet be able to have new relationships and love again. I have a best friend for life that I met ten years ago, and I am lucky enough to be able to read my words to reflect almost every stage of our friendship’s progression.

So, today was a good day for me. It was a very bittersweet day. And, I’ve had a smile on my face since the moment I closed the last book of written memories this afternoon. You cannot ask for much more than that.


Posted by on 06/22/2012 in Uncategorized


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