I’ve been wondering if blogging and writing are worth the time. It has felt counter-productive for ages. I just can’t find something that I want to write about in a continuous way. For me it seems as though when one writes they begin to reside in a place that is uniquely their own. For a long time I’ve been teased for living in my own head. Except that is where I feel safest. There is only my judgement and I am free from the scrutiny of others. I never realized how much I ached under that pressure until I began to present myself to the world.
Now I am staring at the other side of a scary coin.
Few people write solely for their own pleasure. What often begins a personal obsession appears void without a way to share those thoughts and ideas with those around us. We interpret the world and then begin to process every detail, every connection and each crucial fragment of what we sense.
What do you do with your writing?
Do you chronicle everything you experience? Or do you hope to remember it all? For me there is a chasm between what I want to remember and what I hope to forget. With every photo, or poem, or article or story I can recall a specify place, person or thing I loved or longed for. So when I look at all the novellas, the unfinished drafts, the notebooks, the disheveled notes and consider all the unwritten memories I think of all that I’ve lived through, and all that I have learned, but I wonder most of all, what is it worth?