I have often refrained from the whole diary/journal movement because of the internal pressure to compact my life into the eloquence of a single lined page. Then as I expanded my academic writing I suspected that I may be able to transition to the blog trend, but that i found surprisingly too interpersonal. There is too much pressure in the world to be a particular somebody, and I was turned off by that notion controlling my writing in a similar way. I believe that writing for me could be my outlet, but knowing that I should be writing in a certainty that fits an audience is off putting. Recently I was asked what my ideal job would be, not one that I am necessarily working towards, but one that I would be above grateful for if it fell into my lap. I felt the pressure to answer the question quickly, as though I should be supremely aware of the occupation meant for dreams, and so I answered: "I'd love to write, write a column for a news paper, one with no pressure, one that allowed for the capacity of my erratic thoughts and my moral ambiguity." Ideally I would be a Carrie Bradshaw of reality; while I realize she is in fact a fictitious character emulating that of an actual columnist, if it were to be me, it would seem real for the first time, rather than the second or third. I mean I realize that the dream may not be so far fetched but what is-- the ability to write one's life without the concern, the burden of judgement. Her entire collection followed the tragic romance of her ups and downs with Mr. Big. Could I ever openly tell the story of my "Mr. Big?" The beginning when things seemed like they would soar high forever, a tale of greatest concerns being infinite school bus worries and keeping the cordless house phone in my bed room past 10pm. Or could I be expected to openly express the middle when the fights came and past just as equally as the silly stories and movie dates. And if somehow I could take the reader that far, engage them that deep, wouldn't it mean I would have to at least outline the end, even maybe give detail of the sounds of shatter as the brakes gave out, the airbags didn't employ on both sides and we hit the wall. And thats the thing, the beginning seems less real, the middle seems more hazy and yet the ending still flashes in my mind when I close my eyes. But who wants to read about the workings of six and a half years unraveled and raw? Would people recognize that it is just as real as he and I stands alive? Would an audience of varied life experience question my most private, most sacred life experience, the deepest love I have ever know, the greatest regrets I have ever rethought, the sweetest bitter I have ever tasted...if I put it out there, would that mean they reserved the right to question? I may be a tough cookie, but the fact of the matter is a cookie can always crumble. And what about the others, my Berger, Aden, The Russian...is it bad that they winked and I winked back? Is it worse that they came closer and so did I? But maybe it's okay because I'm just a girl, human as the rest...ahh that's the thing, that answer never justifies. Not when you are a female that outsiders have seen commit, a female that gets the grades, wears the cardigans and small stud earrings, not when you are a female who carries herself like a precious crystal vase. The audience may be bias to forget the less positive, the times when that same woman was the object of a man's happiness, the times she put off the studies and instead let her mind wander elsewhere, the skin tight dress comando with the red lace bra, yeh that same woman has been there too. Hard to believe? Maybe the reader wouldn't want to believe.
My point being, writing a column without shame would mean that shame did not exist. In which case is this me admitting that i in fact I can attest to regrets made? Yes. I think that is exactly what I am doing, and I guess that is what makes the: "Carrie Bradshaw Emulation," so enticing. But even the realization of the unlikely fantasy job doesn't make me want to refine my writing to fit the legs crossed type of woman I am supposed to be. I believe that writing could be my freedom, but I wonder if my words will be my demise. In that case it may seem that this outlet should be a private venue to foster my inner entrapment, but I think if I am going to free that prisoner of thought I am going to need to be a read writer. Now of course my friends would support the venture as a form of loyalty, as they know I would do the same for them, but I want an audience without a sense of obligation. I want my greatest private to be read, supported, debated, criticized, analyzed and further, greater...I want a discussion equal to the variation of my experiences. Ideally writing for me would be writing for all the me's alike.
Did I just find my purpose?
No comments:
Post a Comment