ocg's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - I've noticed... that a lot of times I will pick something up and work on it, you name it, I have about a thousand 'hobbies' and most crafty chicks would salivate over the plethora of doo dads and trinkets and tools I have, but I pick it up and work on it because I don't want to have to emotionally deal with what is going on in my head. It's easier to busy the hands than it is to sit down and think, or even write, about it. I used to be a great writer. Lotsa potential. Interesting ideas, good flow, exceptional spelling and grammar. I loved writing! Er, not so much anymore. I suppose having the ex that found my journals, read them, and threw choice excerpts back at me during arguments spoiled the writing thing for me. Or, at least that's what I trace my complete and utter stop in writing to. That, and the fact that I was beaten down emotionally (and occasionally physically) to the point of psychosis by the aforementioned assmunch. Self esteem? Nil. Then, when I did start to write, here and there, I noticed that I only wrote in anger. You know, those great big scrawling go-offs that you find a couple of years later in a box of papers, with odd blotty marks where your tears hit them and warped the paper and/or ink. Or came across the occassional computer disk because, you know, if you were going to write, and you kept the disk with you all of the time, then no one could just 'pick it up' and read it, right? Yeah. Nothing like a paranoid writer. But my self worth was on the rise, or at least it was less than zero, and at least I was able to elucidate some emotion, raw as it was. But I still couldn't write just for the love of writing. So I started "crafting". Knitting, sewing, calligraphy, mosaic, beadwork, jewelry, clay, papercrafts, cards, stamping, collage, soapmaking, painting, drawing, refinishing, stained glass, sculpture, you name it, I'll try it.... And then the other day, I looked around my craft room and saw all of my stuff. And I started really thinking about why I craft, or do art, or create, or whatever description it is that you prefer. And I realized that I have my hobbies, so so many of them, because I am still afraid to write. I'm afraid someone will come along and read my soul and find it unworthy, and make me feel like I did in 'the lost years' (a title exorbitantly more romantic sounding than it felt). Even though I know that I'll never let someone else make me feel that way ever ever ever again, I still associate writing with unhappiness. And I want to be happy, dammit! I AM happy. But I want to write, too. 6:30 p.m. - 2.20.2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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