| < | 2007-02-01 @ 2:28 p.m. the one where? |
> |
Oh my God.
Writing in this again makes me feel like I'm visiting my high school the year after I graduated. I don't belong here, but it's kind of nice to be so nostalgic.
I'm revisiting this little outlet of petty expression and priceless family-informing after about 20 minutes of reading old entries. OLD entries, from back before I came to Columbia. I don't mean to be overly sentimental, but as someone who constantly berates past versions of myself, I think it's important to say this. I miss something about myself in high school. I miss my fearlessness. I miss that I was so passionate about writing. At a certain point in my senior year, I would have been shocked at the idea that one day I'd stop updating this. Today, I think it's kind of embarrassing to have an online diary. What the hell happened to make me so judgemental of myself? And when did I change from a person that was constantly bitching about censorship into a person who goes way too long without writing just because she's afraid of saying something stupid?
A decent percentage of what I said back then might have been stupid, but I wasn't always firing blanks. In fact, I was shocked to hear some of the things Carly 2002 said-- and while tackling some topics that Carly 2007 wouldn't even have the guts to address today for fear of being trite and cliche. Topics like rejection, irrational fears, passion, trying new things, and my own burgeoning talent for self analysis.
Basically, I was a badass. I write so infrequently now, and when I do, I get caught up on little ...things (like, for example, how to avoid using the word "things" just then).
Also (and this is where I get emotional) I really genuinely wanted, and expected, to become a writer. For some reason, until I heard it coming from my past self's own voice, the concept of writing for anything more than self expression had become too fanciful a concept to really consider. I'm so much more intimidated by words than I used to be.
Also, I'm doing way more shit. Which is why I have to go. But please, let the Carly that once was take the stage for a moment. I give you, a piece of my motha-fuckin College Admissions Essay. (Cue the theme from Forrest Gump.)
"If I decide that I can expound enough for it to constitute an entry in my diary, the search for a keyboard to ravage immediately begins.
Because, believe me, NOTHING is more insatiable than my need to document my thoughts. I’d sooner shave my head than put off my writing.
And I’m fond of my hair.
Certain things oftentimes find a way to get disrupt the urgency of my creative processes. For instance, while there is undeniable convenience to the internet, sometimes technology finds ways to severely harm my writing. Imagine this: a teenager typing manically, her fingers going 65 words per minute across the sticky keyboard. Leaping from sentence to sentence, her thoughts are whipping around feverishly—constantly striking up a new point and immediately contradicting the last one. Just when the girl begins to believe what she has managed to create is worthy of publishing, the computer lets out an evil, knowing, cackle of a chime. Within moments her work disappears and a box pops up that reads: “ERROR: Windows must restart. All unsaved work will be lost.” And in that second, both denial and rage meet together to leave the girl shocked and jaw-dropped silent in front of the computer screen. Instantly, she begins to silently promise a ransom of her arms and legs to the heavens above if she could just go back a minute in time to save her work and retrieve the stolen paragraphs.
Now, I cannot even count the number of times this has happened to me. And believe me, nothing short of smacking Bill Gates upside the head will succeed in healing the emotional wounds I have acquired.
It’s moments such as that that really remind me what drives me to write so often: the drive that comes from an idea being ripe and ready to be plucked from my mind. When I’ve finally managed to record it somehow, there’s no need in revisiting it. The initial oomph that comes with writing in the moment can’t be duplicated; which is why it is simply irreparable when a computer swallows my entry.
I don’t linger for very long, though. I know I’ll be ready to write about something else equally as urgent within a matter of hours.
In fact, it is this desire to write that convinces me that Shakespeare and I have something in common; that undeniable need to express and expound, even about the simplest, most unimportant thing. In fact, if I were able to write in iambic pentameter, I’m sure I might eventually have a slight advantage on the Bard. I mean, Shakespeare didn’t even have the internet. "
this program has been encouraged by 14 VIEWERS LIKE YOU
...in case you missed anything...
| < | > |