First, I want to express why I think that writing is my art of choice. I never tire of reading my own words. I re-read each e-mail, I just read the last dozen or so blog posts I’ve put here.
When I have considered other artistic pursuits, I have been moodily turned-off by the notion of absorbing my own work.
I have jokily talked all summer of starting a band with my siblings, but that’s just an excuse to hang out together, and to use my garage to its more, um, young? fun? romanticized? purpose. The thought of hearing the songs I write played back after I sing them to myself actually causes some serious anxiety. I always HATED critique in art class. It felt so invasive and primitive.
For some reason, critique in writing classes was exhilarating and awesome. Maybe because I thought we were talking about something? I don’t know. But I know it was.
Anyway, one of the luxuries of loving the construction of one’s own sentences is that I just really ENJOYED noticing that for the last 3 months (at least), about every other blog I’ve written has said basically the same thing about coping with adulthood.
I’m going to work on that.
Don’t quit reading this silly blog, if you’ve been feeling fed up of my whining and self-absorption. I think I can promise some pretty interesting fiction writing soon. I’ve got some thinks in the works. YESSSSS.