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I have been thinking about the interior spaces of my own mind, if you will.
I've been feeling self-conscious about this journal. It strikes me as so . . . boring. I have been feeling the same way about my paper journal, too. I have been skipping more and more days, which bothers and worries me. I kept it up so faithfully for so many years. After thirty plus years, why am I leaving more and more blank spaces?
When I was in graduate school, I was enthusiastically engaged in books and literary criticism. I loved, loved, loved it. And we practically starved, and we were getting evicted from our apartment because we couldn't pay the rent. Reluctantly, I left graduate school and had babies and took a soul-sucking job. I developed a career as a writer, and I kept somewhat engaged that way. But now that has peetered out and I'm not a working fiction writer anymore.
A couple of months ago, someone whom I really respected, a well known fantasy editor, unfriended my journal. Yeah, yeah, we all know that "friending" is really an inaccurate term for linking to a journal. How do I know why she wanted my journal off her reading list? Maybe her life got extra busy. Maybe she was moving to a different journal service. Yeah, yeah, it's nothing personal. I know that. For all I know, maybe she's still checking in periodically, even if she doesn't have me friended anymore.
But deep down, at my most childishly insecure level, it gnawed me an inordinate amount that this person I truly respected maybe (maybe?) didn't think I have much that was interesting to say.
This past week, when I was sick, my mind really fell to a low ebb. *mumbles, shuffles feet* I read a lot of fanfic. It felt like eating potato chips--addictive and tasty but not very nourishing.
Now the days are getting darker again. I need to ramp up the exercise again, walk in the sun all that I can. I know that the tenor of my mind is in danger of darkening at this time of year, which makes it difficult to see myself realistically. What do I think about? Fanfic. Karate. School schedules. Chauffeuring. The house. What do I feed the kids tonight that they will deign to choke down. Rob's job hunt. How much I hate George W. Bush.
Oh my god, I even bore myself. How can you people stand me to hear me blather on about this stuff? It is as if for years I have been building a house of the mind. I started something ambitious, but the project has been left unfinished. The kids came along, I took the lousy job, life interfered. Now it feels almost as if the wood is starting to rot and the paint is peeling. The pictures on the wall are faded and cracked, and dust covers everything. I know, dimly, that the house is not a particularly cozy or welcoming place. I'm embarrassed to invite anyone to see it. But I can't quite summon up the energy to make it more of the sort of place I'd like to live.
(Sounds an awful lot like my real house, actually.)
I'm not asking for reassurance, exactly. I'm just thinking out loud, saying that this is what it feels like to me.
And it really bothers me.
I've been feeling self-conscious about this journal. It strikes me as so . . . boring. I have been feeling the same way about my paper journal, too. I have been skipping more and more days, which bothers and worries me. I kept it up so faithfully for so many years. After thirty plus years, why am I leaving more and more blank spaces?
When I was in graduate school, I was enthusiastically engaged in books and literary criticism. I loved, loved, loved it. And we practically starved, and we were getting evicted from our apartment because we couldn't pay the rent. Reluctantly, I left graduate school and had babies and took a soul-sucking job. I developed a career as a writer, and I kept somewhat engaged that way. But now that has peetered out and I'm not a working fiction writer anymore.
A couple of months ago, someone whom I really respected, a well known fantasy editor, unfriended my journal. Yeah, yeah, we all know that "friending" is really an inaccurate term for linking to a journal. How do I know why she wanted my journal off her reading list? Maybe her life got extra busy. Maybe she was moving to a different journal service. Yeah, yeah, it's nothing personal. I know that. For all I know, maybe she's still checking in periodically, even if she doesn't have me friended anymore.
But deep down, at my most childishly insecure level, it gnawed me an inordinate amount that this person I truly respected maybe (maybe?) didn't think I have much that was interesting to say.
This past week, when I was sick, my mind really fell to a low ebb. *mumbles, shuffles feet* I read a lot of fanfic. It felt like eating potato chips--addictive and tasty but not very nourishing.
Now the days are getting darker again. I need to ramp up the exercise again, walk in the sun all that I can. I know that the tenor of my mind is in danger of darkening at this time of year, which makes it difficult to see myself realistically. What do I think about? Fanfic. Karate. School schedules. Chauffeuring. The house. What do I feed the kids tonight that they will deign to choke down. Rob's job hunt. How much I hate George W. Bush.
Oh my god, I even bore myself. How can you people stand me to hear me blather on about this stuff? It is as if for years I have been building a house of the mind. I started something ambitious, but the project has been left unfinished. The kids came along, I took the lousy job, life interfered. Now it feels almost as if the wood is starting to rot and the paint is peeling. The pictures on the wall are faded and cracked, and dust covers everything. I know, dimly, that the house is not a particularly cozy or welcoming place. I'm embarrassed to invite anyone to see it. But I can't quite summon up the energy to make it more of the sort of place I'd like to live.
(Sounds an awful lot like my real house, actually.)
I'm not asking for reassurance, exactly. I'm just thinking out loud, saying that this is what it feels like to me.
And it really bothers me.
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