If I had a dollar for every time someone told me I should start a blog, I’d have a starter savings account with a balance comparable to that of my six year old’s piggy bank – but there would be some money in the bank, at least. In my life I have reached a point where I tire of talking about doing things. I have done a lot to arrive at this moment right here. I’ve been meaning to get to writing for some time now and since we’ve finally arrived, let us not be coy.
Since we’re dispensing with formalities, you may as well know that I enjoy a novel string of colourful expletives, so I’m going to go ahead and not apologize for the title of my first post. You should also know that my biggest character flaw is being overly cerebral. Seems strange, I know. In fact, it drives those within my innermost concentric circle absolutely fucking bonkers. With me, a seemingly innocuous inquiry such as “What are you thinking?” will invariably lead you somewhere you may not feel comfortable going along with for the ride. True, for some it’s a place they oughtn’t be. And that’s fine. I like to think. Think. Think. Think. I can get so entrenched in the caverns of my ruminations that I will remain there for days, and although I love it, I will admit it’s not a particularly healthy locale to dwell in for too long. I still visit when I can, but a mechanism to bring me out of this place is required.
As a teenager I had a notebook in which I would transcribe my deepest thoughts. Sharpening sonnets and prose, experimenting with calligraphy, coaxing watercolours to bleed into swirls of fire and the scaly outstretched wings of dragons; brainstorming sessions on what I would later discover to be real deal philosophical concepts. I’d contemplate life, question death. Straighten out the tangled thoughts in my head by stringing words together on paper. One very unfortunate day, my mother happened upon my most prized possession and was thoroughly disturbed by its contents – I know this because my parents later sat me down and demanded to know what was “wrong” with me. Right or wrong, all I wanted was my goddamn journal back. I’d spent countless hours carefully cataloging the contents of my soul in its pages. They denied taking it. I never saw it again. Très triste. Parents of The World: Don’t ever confiscate your child’s intellectual property. Just. Don’t.
In their defense, perhaps they noticed my tendency to think myself into paralysis and didn’t approve; tiptoeing to the edge of an embankment and peering into the lake below while other children dove headlong. Indeed, I yearned to be so free – to jump and feel the air rush by, plunge into the cool water to resurface laughing and exuberant. The thoughts would always stop me. What marine life lay in wait beneath the rippling reflective surface? What of the jagged rocks that would surely impale me? I could feel the slick tendrils of a great water beast dragging me to its murky underwater chamber to suckle the lifeblood from my hapless body. No…I think not. Terra firma, merci beaucoup.
I will say though, that I’ve come to realize that this sort of overthinking lends itself to being a chicken-headed asshole. I’m stubborn as all get out and I won’t budge until I’m ready. When I do make up my mind though, that’s it. And I’m ready.
They say addictions run in families and I suppose mine is no different. My paternal grandmother had the compulsion, that little winged muse that skirted around her head hoping to entice her to sit down and take note. She never did, so far as I know. I think it was because of fear. In her leisure time she dreamed her dreams while her husband read, writing down each word he didn’t have 100% technical clarity on, in order to look it up later. It’s no wonder that their son became an addict. My Dad: The Family Junkie – the only entrepreneur and farmer in a one hundred mile radius with an English degree. Growing up I’d find him tucked away in the furnace room or otherwise situated by his lonesome, guzzling words from his ever amassing stash. Sometimes he’d tell me of the novel he would one day write. My Mom enabled and/or tolerated his addiction by compulsively finishing crossword puzzles at an astonishing rate. What a bunch.
Then there’s me. Ahem. My name is Nadine and I am a third generation want to be writer. I have yearned to write my whole life. It’s only been over the past two years that I’ve begun to dedicate any significant amount of time to it (since that whole childhood expropriation episode), which comes by way of my morning commute. For one hour a day I am left to my thoughts on the train ride to work. As I travel, I transcribe. Play. Work at it. The endless technological resources at my fingertips allow me to research, learn and try new things. I’m sure that to my comparatively puny online network it seems that I am just being a jerkoff, spewing hyperboles, epithets and diatribes like some sort of status update geyser. I ought to give these poor people a break, and I need a larger playground. Which is why I’m here.
When I am overcome by the need to explicate an idea, the thoughts flow over in dizzying pulsations. I require a catchment area for this, space to wade around in the overflow to drudge up and glean from the muck anything worth cleaning off and keeping. Alas, to be a writer you must simply write. This is the notebook that I reclaim, my place to play and share with you as I experiment and grow, should you care to observe. The Little Engine That Couldn’t Wait Any Longer. I think I can stop thinking about it and do it. I think, therefore I can. I am. I do. Avast ye scurvy dogs! Hydra poised to devour me or not, I am taking the plunge.