When I was four years old I was given a tape recorder for Christmas. ( I asked for it).
When I was eight or nine, I started writing stories with protagonists with names like Charlotte and Victoria.
When I fourteen I started keeping a journal, primarily consisting of my tortured feelings about boys who didn't know I existed.
When I was eighteen my friend Danyel convinced me to start a Live Journal, which is filled with self exploration and suburban angst (the worst kind).
In 2008 I completed a degree in English.
And now, as you know, I'm blogging publically for the first time.
Needless to say, reading and writing have been a big part of my life for as long as I can remember.
I have all these bits and pieces collected from my short life and together, I suppose, they give some representation of who I am. I've been digging through some of my journals (there's 20 of them!) and reading through old blog posts on LJ. This is both funny and bad for me...not only because I'm drinking wine and listening to the Rolling Stones at the same time...but because the past is just that. Past. I used to love nostalgia and spending time with relics from days gone by, but that's not me anymore. I think too much of that really holds you back.
Now, that being said, if you're careful, you can really learn about yourself by doing this too. I know I'm being contradictory, but I stand by each of my statements. So there!
I'm thinking of posting old entries from LJ here from time to time and perhaps even scanning some of my real journal entries for all eyes to see. Writing publically has been something I've struggled with for a long time and frankly, I'm done with that. Why not let my growing pains out for all to see? Ha, ha!
All my life I've wanted to be an artist and wondered if I am and what that means and what Art-with-a-capital-A means and what it means to me and why, oh why, does nothing happen when I sit down in front of an instrument and how can I have all this passion but feel no instinct as to how to express it and what happens if I never do and will it make a differene to anyone and does that matter, it should only matter to me because you have to please yourself and being self-concious about even talking about this stuff with anyone and feeling like less than I am and feeling envious and joyous for other peoples art at the same time and thinking there must be a reason I'm surrounded by artists ALL THE TIME, right?
Well, maybe it's time I gave myself up to writing. I tend to lost in words, but it looks like they might be all I have. I didn't choose words, but they certainly seem to have chosen me.