It sits in a compartment of my TV stand collecting dust. It’s lined up next to numerous other books and Trade Paper Backs. I think back, about how it used to be the centerpiece of me. How it somehow held me all together. It contained secrets. It contained tears. Friendships. Hatred. Insanity. Comedy. And it was all from my point of view. It was my brain on paper. It was My Public Journal. I called it this because it became something of a spectacle once people found out about it. So I kept an insanely descriptive journal where I catalogued my friends and the moments and nights we shared, big deal. So I ranted on about things I hated about people and things i heard about people. That’s what got them hooked. I can remember being asked if I had added any updates. I can remember feeling as if it was becoming too non-accurate for fear of the audience reading. I don’t know why it was so important, but it was. It was my writing.
After work today I came home and watched Desperate Housewives which I had taped and then I was bored. I looked around my room for a source of entertainment, and there it was. The old journal. Sitting collecting dust, being abused and forgotten. I picked it up and laughed, opening it up to a random page. The arguments with Stacey and my crush on Sam were talked about. Later it talked about a night where I was DD and these three bitchy chicks just ruined everything. I don’t know, but it was nostalgic to read, and I read it thinking, I wrote this. I did. These are my words. My sentences. My creation.
At Ball State I was trying to become a TV news anchor my freshman year. Later I decided to become a camera man, but none of that worked out really. I didn’t have passion. The entire time though, I had been writing. Writing this crazy journal, and it felt so good to be doing it. I took non-fiction classes so I could keep writing, but for school. I met Jill Christman, a real inspiration. I found something that filled in one of my gaps. One of my wholes. I could write. And I loved it. So today I was reading this journal and I was disgusted with myself. Why did I stop? Why am I not writing everyday? How did I loose my passion? I guess I just have to find again.
I began looking for my book. Not my journal, my book about FagHags. I haven’t worked on it in months. I even mad esome notes about the next couple of chapters. I think I can finish it. and publish it. I need to. I mean, I am a writer, and for yers when people asked what i wanted to do that’s what I told them. I hate how life has a way of pushing you into stuff and pulling you out of it. I should have tried to hang on longer. To focus more on writing, but I didn’t. I was probably too busy getting fucked up, it’s my vice, and i know it. Everyone knows it. I’m afraid of being me. And that’s why I like the writing. I don’t have to be me. I can write about me, I can be someone else, analyzing and making sense of, well, me. Making sense of my life. I am going to finish this damn book.