Writers

went to hear an author speak today. I had not heard of him, but my roommate had to go for a class, and I am always down for hearing a published author speak. It felt so good to be in a room full of writers. I absolutely LOVE writers. They are all so strange and introverted. I feel like I fit in, as long as I don't have to talk about writing. I just like to sit in a room full of them and listen to their pens scribbling on their notebooks. I watch their tense bodies slowly relax as they allow their hearts to bleed upon their paper creating a beautiful, messy piece of art. If I had to be stuck somewhere without anyone to talk to for eternity, I think I would pick to be in a coffee shop surrounded by writers.

I have always been hesitant to claim that I am a writer to anyone, but especially to other writers, because I have such high opinions of them. It makes me feel inadequate to claim the title, but really a writer is just someone who writes regularly…so yeah, I am a writer. I might not be a very good one, but I love it.

I think anyone can write and become a skilled writer with practice, good feedback, and good writing teachers. I was getting more confident about conferencing with other writers from my conferences with a local author last year in my Independent Study Writing class. I loved doing that. It was so intimidating, but extremely rewarding. I would sit there shaking as she would analyze my every word and ask me questions about personal meanings. I would nearly have a breakdown, but I loved it. I miss doing that so much. I don't have anyone to conference with anymore, and I am too intimidated to join the writers group here until I take more English classes. I feel like my writing is getting worse, because I don't do it enough and I don't receive feedback anymore.

I couldn't help but notice in the author's essay about his trip to Auschwitz, that he showed so many signs of isolation and depression. He talked about God in both his essay and the excerpt from his novel. Both his essay and novel were incredibly dark and depressing and showed signs of isolation (big surprise, another cliché writer that can't function in the regular world without pills). I enjoyed his dark religious references, probably because those are the only ones that ever feel real to me. I have never been one for the cheesy "oh we are all going to have wings and sunbathe on clouds," type of thing. He wrote about God with certainty though, which surprised me with his depressing style of writing. From my experience (which is not the only way to experience things), depression and religion can't go together. I just don't see how they could. The inability to feel completely happy without seeing that gloomy cloud following me, waiting to pour down, is not an acceptable way to feel according to most religions. Shame and remorse is encouraged for not appreciating things, even if biologically a person just can't feel good. I really enjoyed a part from his essay where he talked about how basically writers are losers and can't excel at anything else so they write, because they don't know any other way to find meaning. He had a soft voice and I loved listening to him, but my mind was not functioning properly due to my lack of sleep and new medication. I could not think like I normally would, but I noticed how I enjoyed his voice. He was a gruff looking man with a stereotypical black fleece sweatshirt. I liked that such a sweet voice came from a gruff man.

I have been writing a lot with all of my sleepless nights, but it is not much of quality. I think that is good, because it shows I don't have much to be afraid of losing. I have this fear that once my mood starts to stabilize that I won't be able to write anymore. I think that is a common misconception with writers, or any artists. Those crazy introverted writers…how do they make it through the day?