I would like to begin this madness by stating the following:
I don't really like blogs.
I don't like them because of the type of people that usually have them (think whimsical teenage girls with their hearts on their sleeves and an abundance of undirected emotion and angst), and because of what the world expects to see on them (sob stories about loneliness and oh-so-adorable family pictures and beautiful posts about love and loss and heartbreak and book reviews etc.), and because I'm still in the process of convincing myself that writing about life is okay. That writing about life is a perfectly acceptable way of living life. That sometimes writing about life is the best way to live life.
I went through a very long period (very long being about four months, but still) where I had given up any hope of fostering creativity in myself. I had accepted (without much of a fight, I'm sorry to say) that my talents lay elsewhere. Like... talking to people. And... reading. And... you know. Other places.
In a conversation with a friend, I stated "I'm not much of a creator. I'm more of an emphasizer." Whatever that means, I'm now in the process of attempting to prove myself wrong. We're all creators of something. And with that personal essay my professor showed to the class and my parents loved, I figured out that I wasn't just good at pounding out analytical essays. I was good at writing other things, too. I can create some stuff with words and punctuation.
And now a brief explanation of my blog's title:
I become obsessed with things periodically. A certain (and ever-rotating) boy, Back to the Future, the Doors, running a marathon (which I WILL do someday probably), learning to ride a motorcycle, the list goes on. The periods of obsession last from an hour to a month, but one thing can be certain: they pass eventually.
Maybe this is human nature, but I feel like it's more me nature than anyone else nature. While chatting at our pull-out granite-ish dinner table one night, my mom dubbed these passing obsessions "fleeting passions." And that's what they've been ever since.
You'll surely read of more than one if a) you keep reading and b) (more importantly) I keep writing.
That's all for now. It has come the time for me to stop listening to Zeppelin and Coldplay and Creedence Clearwater and get down to the real business: which Woody Allen movie will I watch by myself in my now-warmish (thanks to the maintenance guy who saved me from certain death-by-freezing) apartment?
I don't really like blogs.
I don't like them because of the type of people that usually have them (think whimsical teenage girls with their hearts on their sleeves and an abundance of undirected emotion and angst), and because of what the world expects to see on them (sob stories about loneliness and oh-so-adorable family pictures and beautiful posts about love and loss and heartbreak and book reviews etc.), and because I'm still in the process of convincing myself that writing about life is okay. That writing about life is a perfectly acceptable way of living life. That sometimes writing about life is the best way to live life.
I went through a very long period (very long being about four months, but still) where I had given up any hope of fostering creativity in myself. I had accepted (without much of a fight, I'm sorry to say) that my talents lay elsewhere. Like... talking to people. And... reading. And... you know. Other places.
In a conversation with a friend, I stated "I'm not much of a creator. I'm more of an emphasizer." Whatever that means, I'm now in the process of attempting to prove myself wrong. We're all creators of something. And with that personal essay my professor showed to the class and my parents loved, I figured out that I wasn't just good at pounding out analytical essays. I was good at writing other things, too. I can create some stuff with words and punctuation.
And now a brief explanation of my blog's title:
I become obsessed with things periodically. A certain (and ever-rotating) boy, Back to the Future, the Doors, running a marathon (which I WILL do someday probably), learning to ride a motorcycle, the list goes on. The periods of obsession last from an hour to a month, but one thing can be certain: they pass eventually.
Maybe this is human nature, but I feel like it's more me nature than anyone else nature. While chatting at our pull-out granite-ish dinner table one night, my mom dubbed these passing obsessions "fleeting passions." And that's what they've been ever since.
You'll surely read of more than one if a) you keep reading and b) (more importantly) I keep writing.
That's all for now. It has come the time for me to stop listening to Zeppelin and Coldplay and Creedence Clearwater and get down to the real business: which Woody Allen movie will I watch by myself in my now-warmish (thanks to the maintenance guy who saved me from certain death-by-freezing) apartment?
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