words, words, words

Lately I've really been wanting to write. I've had the feeling that if I wrote more frequently (or at all, really--I must admit that my writing habits have screeched to a grinding halt) I'd feel less antsy, less stressed, less aggravated with myself and those around me (sorry, boyfriend).

I'm not claiming to have amazing things to say or prolific thoughts to pour forth from my fingertips. Rather, I need some sort of prettily designed dumping ground for my words and the charming but now-antiquated journal doesn't let me write fast enough. And, let's face it, the writer's cramp sets in faster than ever since I'm so out of practice.


When I was younger and kept a daily (or at least weekly) journal, I became so addicted to writing in it that things felt off-kilter if I missed a chance to write in it. Even if I wrote only a few sentences as I was fighting off sleep, I felt a sense of closure as I ended the day. I miss the feeling of depending on words that way. I do depend on books to get me through. Most recently--as in, a few hours ago--I finished Julia Glass's The Whole World Over, a beautiful and mesmerizing novel I highly recommend to each and every one of you, whoever you may be.

In the later years of high school and first few years of college, I was so caught up with assigned readings for school and my social life that I didn't make time for pleasure reading. At first I actively missed my novel-reading time, wondering what adventures were being had that I wasn't a part of now that I had to read for school. Granted, I was an English major at school and therefore got to read many things I would've wanted to read anyhow. In January of 2001, I flew to Buenos Aires, Argentina with a group of relative strangers for one of my university's study abroad programs. NYU in Buenos Aires had around fifty students that semester, and I knew maybe two kids by name. Within a week or so, I became casual friends with a few. After a month, we were very close and had begun trading around our most precious commodity, something very hard to find in Buenos Aires--something that, if found, would cost a fortune: English-language books. I read Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City series, enjoying every moment of the soap operatic adventures of the crazily intertwined characters. I read Tom Wolfe and guide books to Brazil and anything I could get my hands on. A combination of a light class load and books suddenly becoming a rare treasure restored unto me a sense of wonder. Books were amazing!!

When I returned to New York the next semester, I vowed to myself that I would no longer forgo the pleasures of reading. Each evening I would complete my homework so that I could reward myself with free reading. And the plan worked! Since then, I've returned to my pre-high school status of bookworm. I can't get enough. For those of you unfamiliar with the newest social networking sites centered around literature, I encourage you to visit my favorite, www.goodreads.com. Shelfari.com is another good one, I hear, but goodreads.com seems to me better organized and prettier.

I want to write. Or at least I think I do. But I need to get in gear. I need to become more disciplined. At this point--and at almost any point--in my life, it takes a deadline to force me into doing something. I'm hoping that I will be able to keep up with my goal of writing by first making a habit of writing a blog entry every day. Think I can do it?

Do you dare me?

I just hope someone tells me I can't do it. Maybe then I'll have someone to prove wrong.

I'm going to post a bunch of blog entries from my other, infrequently maintained myspace blog. Since my myspace page is listed as private, friends who don't have a myspace account don't get to look at it.

Wish me luck.
-Janet