forgot i had a blog
but I remember now.
I think that when I write I can’t help but write first person and in stream of consciousness fashion. I hate reading stream of consciousness but really I don’t have to reread this (mistype: retread; does that really change the meaning all that much?) so I guess I’ll live with it for now.
I found a plastic sword in the attic of an abandoned house a week ago. I thought it needed batteries but the hole where it was screwed together was packed with dirt so tonight I took a nail and went to scratch it out. When I started to scratch it kind of just crumbled, and it was like a film of dirt and then something that looked moist underneath. I don’t know. Anyway, there was no screw in there so I packed the hole back up with candle-wax and found the appropriate holes for screws, but now I’m afraid to open it. What might be in it? A fully grown moss organism? A slimy organic mass of… what?
We used candles when we were in the house and they really weren’t all that bright and it was kind of weird because, to see, you had to shield your eyes from the light by holding your hand in front of it. I was trying to think about that (or trying not to honestly, I analyze everything, why?) about how you had to do that, some weird metaphorical thing about how you have to guard yourself against the light in order for it to truly and usefully illuminate.
I wrote a paper for my English teacher today that was exactly like this blog entry except it was about why I think fiction is important (I like it and I’m a dreamer okay) and “two” of my favorite authors which turned into like twenty eight authors I like and now I don’t know how to cull the herd. Then it was somehow about my neighbors downstairs and the benefits of profanity. And my roommate, a little. It was pretty personal I guess. We were supposed to print it out before class but the printer was broken in the English lab and the tech guy said he was sorry but offered no alternatives. I didn’t hand it in, I wonder if I ever will now. It was hard to get up the nerve to have the idea I was going to hand it in. It wasn’t hard to write it though. It was too easy to write it. Just like it was easy to write this post.
If something is easy, does that mean it’s not good? Like, this writing here, I didn’t think about it too much, didn’t agonize over it with my feet twisting cold in the sheets at the bottom of my bed or my head leaning wet against the wall in the shower while I stared at my feet, does that mean it’s not good enough? Does good writing (or good… anything) need to be tortured out of you or maybe pulled forcefully like a tooth? And if so, why?
