Ladies, gentlemen … Mom …
Welcome to my 3rd (thousandth?) blog. “Why, Christina?” you ask as this adorable balloon bedecked page loads. “Why are you asking me to read about all of your over-adjectived thoughts? Why are you making up words? Who do you think you are?”
Actually, maybe you ask none of these things. I just wanted to share the conversation I recently had with myself in the mirror.
The truth is, I am sick of writing for myself.
I spent the past year applying to writing programs and constantly wondering why I want to write so badly. Even though I wrote for school newspapers over six years in a row (some of my weekly column’s for The Tower can be found at this ugly blog), I never questioned WHY. I just did it because it felt good (said the cocaine addict). Without a public platform, all of my writing, excluding my excruciating thesis on Faulkner’s fascination with cow sex, just sat in my notebook. Unfortunately, since I had no deadlines, audience, or purpose, most of that writing involves unanswered questions and lots and lots of alcohol.
Writing is my self-expression. Some people have politics, tap dancing, video games … cow sex. If I could express myself by running for congress, I would. If I could design buildings, there would be a lot of weird buildings in the shape of unicorns. Sometimes I wish it was different — that I wanted to synchronize swim or be an FBI agent. But thinking like that never does me any good.
Writing is my way of sorting things out, but it is also my way of doing myself, my family, my friends, and (haha) humanity justice. I see mini displays of bravery on the daily and want to document it — well.
It is also most likely a sick cry for attention or some way of channeling my inherent, deep-rooted narcissism.
Oh well. So be it.