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Oct. 3rd, 2005 06:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
readingredheadOkay. So, I have a bunch of stuff due Wednesday, which I can't do tomorrow night since I've got that night school health class. I don't want to get behind in AP US and I think I'm already behind in AP Gov. I know I'm not learning anything in Psych, and there are a few things in Physics and Math that I could work ahead on.
So what am I doing? I'm sitting here and writing, which I definitely don't need to do.
Then again, people (me included) sometimes misevaluate their needs. Surely, homework is more important to my eventual career and life than writing a random journal entry here is...but at the same time, a part of me justifies this quite rightly as necessary. I need to write in order to maintain my sanity. It's through writing that I'm allowed to keep a grip on this world, and I know tthat if I had no time for writing, the meaning of everything else would slowly start to slip away...I just need to write because when I write it's okay to be myself.
Not that it's not okay to be myself elsewhere -- I'm not inhibited from being me anywhere that I am. It's just that theres and odd sort of feeling that i get when I'm writing. It just jakes me feel...well, not quite happy, not quite proud...determined is maybe a good word for it, and involved, and, well, necessary.
Yes, necessary. Somewhere in my head a part of me thinks that in the future the writing community will need me, will appreciate me. Some part of me thinks that writing is the place I will always be able to call home. Some part of me...I don't know what part, but it does a good job of keeping me dreaming. And that's important, because even though when you're lookin up at the heavens you sometimes forget what's going on down here on Earth, sometimes what's going on here is something that you don't necessarily want to be remembering.
So I write, even when it's random drabbles like this. I write for me, and because of me. I write because of some compulsion that I don't understand...but it's definitely a compulsion. Part of me says that I've just trained myself to express things on paper (or on the computer screen, as it were), but another part of me says that writing is what I'm good at, and what I'm meant to do; that it always has been and it always will be.
There's something refreshing about having such a constant in life. I know with certainty that, no matter where I am in ten, twenty, even thirty years, I will still like to write in order to vent, or express emotions, or just play around with all of the weird ideas that pop into my head. Like the one about the red Converse high-tops that I really ought to get around to writing. I'll still have books as my refuge, too; in fact, I'll probably still own all of the same books that I do now, though hopefully my collection will be somewhat expanded later on in my life. I like having those certainties; somehow, they anchor me to the here and now just as firmly as my family and friends and goals. It's odd, but sometimes I'm able to find more refuge in books and writing than I can anywhere else.
Not that anything tragic has to be happening for me to enjoy a good book or a good writing exercise. That's the great thing about writing and reading (for me, at least): it doesn't matter what mood I'm in, writing and reading always have exactly what I need. Even if it's just a reminder that true love does happen, things can end happily ever after, hardships are worth overcoming, death isn't in vain, and good always beats evil in the end. For those values, I have literature to thank.
I'm going to write for exactly two more minutes, until 7:00, at which point I will stop and do homework for Vargish.
I think it's interesting that Mr. McClure's rearranged the order of the books his students read. Now he's starting out with all the romantic dramas/tragedies/comedies (because they're all of those things combined): Cyrano de Bergerac, Pride and Prejudice, and Twelfth Night. I don't even remember what happened in Cyrano, though I do remember crying when I finished the book because I was so sad for what happened to Cyrano. Yet at the same time, I have a vast appreciation for tragedies, because of the way they are able to elicit emotions from the readers.
And it appears that my two minutes are up sooner than I thought they'd be, since my sister came in and interrupted my writing...but at the same time I really do need to go. And life should not be an interruption...
So what am I doing? I'm sitting here and writing, which I definitely don't need to do.
Then again, people (me included) sometimes misevaluate their needs. Surely, homework is more important to my eventual career and life than writing a random journal entry here is...but at the same time, a part of me justifies this quite rightly as necessary. I need to write in order to maintain my sanity. It's through writing that I'm allowed to keep a grip on this world, and I know tthat if I had no time for writing, the meaning of everything else would slowly start to slip away...I just need to write because when I write it's okay to be myself.
Not that it's not okay to be myself elsewhere -- I'm not inhibited from being me anywhere that I am. It's just that theres and odd sort of feeling that i get when I'm writing. It just jakes me feel...well, not quite happy, not quite proud...determined is maybe a good word for it, and involved, and, well, necessary.
Yes, necessary. Somewhere in my head a part of me thinks that in the future the writing community will need me, will appreciate me. Some part of me thinks that writing is the place I will always be able to call home. Some part of me...I don't know what part, but it does a good job of keeping me dreaming. And that's important, because even though when you're lookin up at the heavens you sometimes forget what's going on down here on Earth, sometimes what's going on here is something that you don't necessarily want to be remembering.
So I write, even when it's random drabbles like this. I write for me, and because of me. I write because of some compulsion that I don't understand...but it's definitely a compulsion. Part of me says that I've just trained myself to express things on paper (or on the computer screen, as it were), but another part of me says that writing is what I'm good at, and what I'm meant to do; that it always has been and it always will be.
There's something refreshing about having such a constant in life. I know with certainty that, no matter where I am in ten, twenty, even thirty years, I will still like to write in order to vent, or express emotions, or just play around with all of the weird ideas that pop into my head. Like the one about the red Converse high-tops that I really ought to get around to writing. I'll still have books as my refuge, too; in fact, I'll probably still own all of the same books that I do now, though hopefully my collection will be somewhat expanded later on in my life. I like having those certainties; somehow, they anchor me to the here and now just as firmly as my family and friends and goals. It's odd, but sometimes I'm able to find more refuge in books and writing than I can anywhere else.
Not that anything tragic has to be happening for me to enjoy a good book or a good writing exercise. That's the great thing about writing and reading (for me, at least): it doesn't matter what mood I'm in, writing and reading always have exactly what I need. Even if it's just a reminder that true love does happen, things can end happily ever after, hardships are worth overcoming, death isn't in vain, and good always beats evil in the end. For those values, I have literature to thank.
I'm going to write for exactly two more minutes, until 7:00, at which point I will stop and do homework for Vargish.
I think it's interesting that Mr. McClure's rearranged the order of the books his students read. Now he's starting out with all the romantic dramas/tragedies/comedies (because they're all of those things combined): Cyrano de Bergerac, Pride and Prejudice, and Twelfth Night. I don't even remember what happened in Cyrano, though I do remember crying when I finished the book because I was so sad for what happened to Cyrano. Yet at the same time, I have a vast appreciation for tragedies, because of the way they are able to elicit emotions from the readers.
And it appears that my two minutes are up sooner than I thought they'd be, since my sister came in and interrupted my writing...but at the same time I really do need to go. And life should not be an interruption...
