The wild and windy night

ImageHave I already used this photo?

Another reason, dear E, getting back to your question of what inspires (or possesses) me to write in this thang, is that I have to purge the me-thoughts to get to the creative ones and write what I “should” be writing.

By the way – there is no Rum Diary to focus on right now – we’re in a holding pattern.

I have kept diaries over the years – diaries that turned into journals once that seemed the more age-appropriate word – and in my experience it’s been a bit fruitless. Ironic though this might sound given what I’m currently writing, I could never really open up in them, convinced as I was that they’d be found before or after my end of days and at best mocked, at worst published. Some time ago I read through the ones I’ve kept since graduating to post-college life, and they were distressingly similar in theme from year to year. I need to quit X I need to start Xing I wish I hadn’t X’d last week. I’ve quit pretty much all that I’ve needed to and I’ve started to do the good things (exercise, do more cultural things, organize my stuff, write) and as I’ve said before, I’ve vanquished regret. So perhaps those decades of complaining in longhand were foreplay – lots and lots of it – for my finally leading a far-better-albeit-highly-flawed life, at last. I know better than anyone else that I still have a long road ahead of me on my quest for self-betterment. I plan to take it. I plan, as my parents and some of my favorite grown-ups have and do, to continue my quest for self-betterment for all of my days. Without things to strive for, without room for improvement, what is our purpose? My purpose is to write, live, and love. And those are all things on which I can continually improve.

Here’s a delightful story about keeping journals. Many, many moons ago I lived with a man I loved at the time. This was one of the most fertile writing times of my life. One of my journals was also a writing notebook, where I kept story ideas and fragments and characters and lines of dialogues I’d someday try to use. I’d started a story about a woman having an affair with her boss. It never went anywhere. I moved on.

I had a great job at the time – I was the writer and editor of an entertainment website and was one of a department of six – smart, invested people. One day we were in a meeting with someone important – don’t recall who – and I looked up and saw Boyfriend standing outside the conference room with a dour look on his face. Of course my mind went right to the notion that someone I love had died. I shakily left the meeting and went to him, and he said, “I know.” It took a minute to get what he “knew” out of him. We went out for a pint. I forgave him, for reading my journal, for jumping to that conclusion, for invading my workspace. I began writing everything in code. I don’t go to horrible places in my fiction. Not his fault. Not his legacy. But oy vey. That sucked.

Anyway. I fell in love with a seagull this weekend. They were right – first gay marriage, now this.

xo

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