During several periods of intense sadness caused by various health-, friendship-, family- and boy- (gross!) related SNAFUs over the last several months, I have, fortunately, had a support network that was jumping at the chance to offer me suggestions for how I could improve my mood1. Most suggested that I write about my feelings, in a private journal, raw and unedited for the purposes of self-therapy.
I’ll admit, it’s something that I have thought of, but not anything I thought I would ever do. This seems counterintuitive. After all, I’m always writing anyway! I consider myself a whizz with words2!
So let’s get meta. Let’s self-diagnose and try to get to the bottom of my ick factor3. What is it about confessing to a spiral-bound notebook that seems so offensive to me?
I write constantly. Mostly with my fingers, tapping away at a keyboard. I write my thesis, the hopefully current, but probably permanent, love of my life. I write text messages to friends, I use instant messaging apps, and I update my Facebook status at times. I write posts for two blogs, neither of which will ever go viral.
I don’t know if I like writing; I certainly like having written things that I can feel proud of, pieces of work that I can slap my name on in perpetuity. I have always been an untrained, potentially arrogant, amateur writer who soaks up the praise and dwells unhappily on the criticism before dismissing it completely.
But my writing has always been performative – owned by me, read by others. Whether I am completing a chapter of my thesis or texting about a particularly interesting anecdote to a close friend4, my writing is meant to be seen, read, judged, and hopefully, loved. As a child, I often considered how I could write my private journals in a way that would elevate me to a position of fame, or at the very least, gain me some kind of recognition. I am the first to admit that I am (unfortunately?) unhealthily dependent on validation for my own happiness.
And therein lies my issue with writing. An activity that for some is therapeutic becomes a stressful race for me, a challenge to commendably entertain, instruct, and inspire my reader. If I ever re-read a previously written work of my own, I decided, Future Me would be appropriately impressed. I haven’t yet gone back through my 1oth grade musings in a starry notebook, nor have I been able to muster up the courage to open up a word document from one very emo summer during college.
However, this blog (right here!) and the piles of annotated thesis chapter drafts littered on my desk and around5 compel me to face my own work on a day-to-day basis. I am forced to review, to edit, and, because of the nature of the internet and my own self-important ways, consider how my writing can be an everlasting contribution. Writing makes me bite my nails and frown at my computer screen. It makes me pour myself just one glass of wine so that I can sit in a controlled, timed environment6 to reach a goal. It’s not relaxing, for sure. It’s only very occasionally cathartic, but certainly not therapeutic. But why I write doesn’t have to be.
And readers, will you please join me in my conceited journey of performance? Will you read my musings, engage with any provocative statements, and chuckle politely at jokes that I have crafted, deleted, and re-written many times? I promise I will do my best to make it worth your while.
4. Or a not-so-close-friend, a romantic interest, or a forgettable acquaintance. Hell, let’s just also throw in that sometimes the anecdotes are not even that interesting! The point is, I bring all the interesting.
5. On some occasions, one will find me on the floor, under my desk, with my collection of binders. I have a secret hope that one of my colleagues will take a photo of me looking adorably, geekily frazzled, and it will the iconic book-jacket photo of my memoir as an academic. If anyone is reading this… hint?
6. I am notoriously clumsy with wine glasses, so no sudden movements and/or gestures are allowed when that amazing liquid is being consumed. My environment is also timed by the length of time it takes to drink a glass of wine. I am my own behavioural scientist.