It has been a little less than a month since I started writing in my paper journal. By my count, I have written about 55 pages worth of random thoughts. I’m not sure I’ve ever stuck with a journal this long, my blog and my furtive teenage angst writings aside. The question I ask myself is a simple one: Why do I continue writing those entries I set aside a portion of everyday for?

The most obvious and perhaps traditional reason for writing is the nostalgia and for the archive of my thoughts. Ideas that by nature are nebulous and fleeting are anchored to reality by a stroke of a pen. I don’t know if that can be considered romantic or magical, but at the very least it’s a nifty trick. I can go back and digest my ramblings later, and perhaps remind myself that sometimes I do write well and have good ideas. It’s good to remind myself sometimes.

Many of my entries have become an outlet for my fears, hopes, frustrations, and dreams. It is candid and intimate. The best part is that it is uniquely me on those pages I write. I can look at the nonsense and proudly say “This is who I am, and I did this.”

Another aspect I’ve noticed lately is my journal being a symbol of rebellion. As many know, I hate my job with more than a little passion. Being the guy with the fountain pen and journal scribbling away separates me a little more from the life I temporarily reside in. It is a badge that declares that I am different, I will rise above this, and I have fate and adventures somewhere far away from this path that I have come to loathe. To put it simply, it gives me hope.

Speaking of work, my writing is also a secret and a power. My boss has wondered aloud if I write negative things about him (which, of course, I often do, but that’s beside the point). The truth is that nobody at work knows what I write, why I’m writing, or how to understand somebody wanting to write. They give me curious glances, but nobody ever inquires about my writing. The only comment I have received is a joking notion that I’m writing a novel, to which I shrugged and gave a sly smile to their confusion. There is a lot of strength in a pen and a lack of explanation.

All this is important, but there is also simply the visceral moment of committing words to paper. There’s taking part in the dance of the symbiotic relationship between pen and paper. It’s the feel of the pen softly gliding on the paper, leaving a colorful trail behind. There is wonder and peace in watching ink dry. The is authority and precision of wielding a pen in your hand, guiding it through the course of recording a little piece of yourself. The reward of accomplishment and awe of wit unfolding is intoxicating.

Still, perhaps I can just answer my question of why very plainly, though there is much more to it: I like writing.

I’m writing this from an app on my phone. I’m digging this new fancy phone stuff. The future is here!

How are you?

I finally got a new phone: HTC Eris. I’ve wasted the night playing around with it. Updates later.

At the very moment I might be considered a little tipsy. This is because these days my best forms of entertainment are my trips to a bar. It is just about the most human interaction/entertainment I have these days. This is probably a bit of a problem. I don’t exactly see it as a good thing.

This is one of the reasons I count the days until I’m back in the familiar places. I need a reconnection because I’ve felt lost and directionless lately. I feel like a mess.

To echo the title of this post, I’m hoping that things will turn out much better for me in the near future. I’m worried about the chance that things completely feel failed again.

I have too many problesm and shortcomings I cannot admit to any one. How weird is that?

Two downtrodden posts in a row? Ugh. Things must be falling apart quickly.

I’m currently tipsy and unable to really concentrate on posting. Unfortunately, as my life has gone these days, drinking beer has been just about my only form of entertainment. Sigh.

I am hoping for a change though. I’m waiting for an email to come in from the school I applied to. I can’t wait to start my new chapter of life.

I feel so pathetic. Nothing feels right anymore. At least I can still type. Useless rewards.

I fail to give a damn anymore about most everything. Could there be something so damning?

I thought this was supposed to be a release. Ugh. I fail, but still follow. Boo me.

My days at work lately have become exercises in keeping my sanity. I spent today half looking for some sort of motivation, failing, then deciding that I’ll just get to the job folders on my desk tomorrow. After that I just noodled in my journal about how lousy of a day I was having.

Sigh.

About the only thing remotely productive I did today was help a coworker with their woes in Microsoft Excel. That didn’t take too much effort though. It was mostly reminding him to actually understand the formulas before he comes bothering me. It really didn’t take much effort, as you might imagine.

Double Sigh.

I need a lengthy break from work. I know that I’m already counting the days until Thanksgiving. I suppose I’m also counting down until next year, when I will endeavor to finally get out from under this job that has ran its course and long ago sank in the gloaming depths of apathy and loathing.

So close, so nervous, so unsure of my daring.

This year I attempted to get back into NaNoWriMo after an absence of two or three years. Let’s call it a casual testing of the waters. It ended up being a mixed bag, but mostly positive, as I will explain.

After about ten pages, I had completed no more than three rapid changes in the plot. This, compounded with the my continuing battle with being too damn busy, led me to not continue this year. I decided that mindlessly writing 50,000 words wasn’t in the cards.

The upside, however, is that I don’t see this as a spectacular failure. I actually found my ten pages quite informational. Though the little bit I wrote wasn’t too exciting, I believe that there were some really good ideas in there. I just need more time/experience to flesh them out properly. I am again confident of my ability to write something more substantial, descriptive and exciting, no matter how long or short that would be.

In the end I think the most negative thought I had was a lament that I should have somehow had more robots. I’ll categorize that as not too bad.

I had another post written for today, but I don’t feel like transcribing it. I just had a very blah sort of day. I blame the weather. Why is it toasty and pretty much in the 80s yesterday and overcast and rainy all day today? Stupid weather. Anyway, the day sort of just wandered by and I feel really unproductive.

Even with a renewed interest in writing, I find it difficult to come up with worthwhile topics to write about. I feel confident enough to be able to hash out ideas about almost any prompted subject, but the self-generated prompts have been hard to come by.

I do not have such problems writing in my personal paper journal. However, I almost find it to be a different medium in the way I approach it. I write in my journal in a sort of ’stream of consciousness’ style. I jump from subject to subject without much concern for the content and depth or my individual thoughts. It is also, of course, a much more personal medium.

Blogging to me is more of singular subject sort of medium, requiring more insight, depth, and attention to detail. Well, at least that’s what it appears to be. I’ve written very sparse posts many times before, but nobody seems to like my sparse posts.

I believe this sort of loss of ideas is commonly referred to as ‘Writer’s Block.’ It is an excuse I’ve used before, but I’m not sure if I will any more. There was a recent interview on Sirius that I listened to with John Darnielle, lead singer-songwriter of the band The Mountain Goats. This band is well known for their rather prolific amount of output. What this guy said was that invoking Writer’s Block is a cop-out; when you’re stuck you need to keep plugging at it until something inspirational comes along.

Still, this accounts for the need to keep writing even if you are less than inspired, but not what to write about. I suppose that in desperate times I could just write about mundane things like Advil or toothpaste. Who knows? Maybe such strange subjects will lead to epic posts. Perhaps it only leads to a paragraph or two. I need to accept than not everything I write can or needs to be a masterpiece.

The ideas in this post may be amateurish and ultimately useless. They may be inspirational instead. The author makes no claims to his writing prowess. YMMV!

Normally, in continuing with the methods that have brought with me an increased ability to write blog posts, I would hash one out on paper before hand. However, after writing a long letter, I have neither the time nor desire to buckle down and come up with something right now. I will keep this short and sweet.

I am thinking about sending out Christmas cards this year. The problem is that I have one address in my address book. Damn you advent of technology?

With my new commitment to writing, I considered NaNoWriMo this year. I just don’t have the time though. Maybe next year?

I got a large splotch of ink on my hand today, and I’m not quite sure how I did that. Fountain pen baby steps.

I plan to spend this weekend sleeping as much as possible.