Column imitates life [by Laura]
It's unoriginal to write about writing. Hence, I'm not going to go on about the therapeutic qualities of writing (plentiful) or my reasons for writing things down (various). My problem is, aside from the lack of sparkling talent, obviously, that compared to the writers I read and admire in the blogging world - I'm talking about the mostly non-published hidden gems whose daily prose keeps me coming back to their online journals - I don't seem to have any experiences to draw from. In effect, I intent not to write so much about writing as I intent to write about life.
It's strange, really. You'd think that I, after leaving home at tender age of fifteen, and having changed country twice before I turned twenty-three, would have more anecdotes to draw from. I seem to be cursed with a level head - figuratively speaking - and a cautious approach to life which has condemned me to live my life like there was a tomorrow with consequences.
Unfortunately, this approach hasn't seemed to catch up with my finances (or lack thereof), nor has it ever cured me of procrastination. But then again, I never forget my keys, I never lose my wallet (except that one time when the gnomes hid it behind the sofa pillows) and it's frankly astonishing how I never, ever fall asleep on the train and end up in Sweden, where I get shanghaied on a cargo ship bound for Far East to smuggle Bengal Tigers to the private zoos of wealthy but mysterious Arabs. So I guess it can't all be bad.
When I was a teenager I constantly worried about ending up being the one who keeps her head in a crisis and ends up mother-goosing intoxicated friends out of potentially harmful situations. Instead, I turned out to become the one who manages to drink vast amounts of vodka and still smirk at the drunken stupor of everyone else from the sidelines and go home early.
An intellectual writer would then create prose based on the social behaviour of her friends; make cunning arguments over the sociological and biological aspects of alcohol in context of mating instincts. A bold writer would even take a political stand with sharp observation and go on a downright spittle-flecked rant about the state of the toilets. A true writer would have stayed in the party, made a complete arse of herself, gone home with some dubious character and written a sarcastic description of the consequences, including a graphic description of the hangover.
Truly brilliant writers, of course, don't have to go to parties at all; they make perfectly normal things sound exciting and give everyday life a whole new meaning. For instance; my life is wonderful (I wonder what I'm doing here), my job unbelievable (it's hard to believe I'm really doing this shit) and the pay fantastic (I fantasize about a pay rise). I suppose the conclusion is that with a little imagination and a way with words one doesn't, in fact, need to have a life at all. I feel so much better now.
It's strange, really. You'd think that I, after leaving home at tender age of fifteen, and having changed country twice before I turned twenty-three, would have more anecdotes to draw from. I seem to be cursed with a level head - figuratively speaking - and a cautious approach to life which has condemned me to live my life like there was a tomorrow with consequences.
Unfortunately, this approach hasn't seemed to catch up with my finances (or lack thereof), nor has it ever cured me of procrastination. But then again, I never forget my keys, I never lose my wallet (except that one time when the gnomes hid it behind the sofa pillows) and it's frankly astonishing how I never, ever fall asleep on the train and end up in Sweden, where I get shanghaied on a cargo ship bound for Far East to smuggle Bengal Tigers to the private zoos of wealthy but mysterious Arabs. So I guess it can't all be bad.
When I was a teenager I constantly worried about ending up being the one who keeps her head in a crisis and ends up mother-goosing intoxicated friends out of potentially harmful situations. Instead, I turned out to become the one who manages to drink vast amounts of vodka and still smirk at the drunken stupor of everyone else from the sidelines and go home early.
An intellectual writer would then create prose based on the social behaviour of her friends; make cunning arguments over the sociological and biological aspects of alcohol in context of mating instincts. A bold writer would even take a political stand with sharp observation and go on a downright spittle-flecked rant about the state of the toilets. A true writer would have stayed in the party, made a complete arse of herself, gone home with some dubious character and written a sarcastic description of the consequences, including a graphic description of the hangover.
Truly brilliant writers, of course, don't have to go to parties at all; they make perfectly normal things sound exciting and give everyday life a whole new meaning. For instance; my life is wonderful (I wonder what I'm doing here), my job unbelievable (it's hard to believe I'm really doing this shit) and the pay fantastic (I fantasize about a pay rise). I suppose the conclusion is that with a little imagination and a way with words one doesn't, in fact, need to have a life at all. I feel so much better now.
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