let’s kill the world

Writing is an integral part of my character.  I would not hestitate one bit to say that my writing is what defines me.  I write when I’m bored, when I’m inspired, when I need an outlet; I write for an audience, for myself–for the self I want to be, for the self that I was.  It is the most private thing I have.  I’ve kept a journal since I was 12.  It was a Lisa Frank journal with a hot pink bubblegum holder-shaped lock with the keys that work in virtually every adolescent journal.  I can remember, without even looking, what the bulk of the entries contained.  They typically said “It was a boring day,” “I hate mom/dad/Jennifer (sister),” “I like ____,” etc.  I remember knowing when I wrote it that I knew I should write more than simple sentences without substance, but I wrote because I felt like I should.  I wanted to write, no matter how trite it was.  Yeah, at 12 I still remember that.  That journal sparked a writing revolution within me.  I have kept a journal since (rest assured, the content has become more elaborate and writing worthy).  My senior year in high school I read God-Shaped Hole and in it one of the characters, Jacob (?), titled his journals.  (I read it on the recommendation of a friend, Autumn, and because the portion I read had a scene of a blowjob in it).   Since, I have titled my journals and, oddly enough, the writing contained within it completely fits the title I had chosen (and doodled around) months before.  (And, typically, journals last a maximum of 6 months).  I go through months without writing and I go through months of writing several entries a day.  I have kept these journals (pre-college) in an orange suitcase I bought at goodwill for $1.  If you asked me what I would save if my house was burning down, it would most likely be that suitcase.  Without it, I would feel that I lost an imperative part of myself that I can never get back.  
     “You’ve got your memories,” one might say.  Yes… and no.  I think the pot smoking killed too many brain cells or something (even though I had my first joint 2 years ago..), but I have a horrible memory.  There are some things that I remember vividly…with every sense–smell, sight, sound, taste, and touch… and typically, they tend to be completely irrelevant moments in time.  But there are things that happen on a daily basis that tend to be comical, disheartening, blissful, etc. that I write down.  Sometimes because I have my journal on hand and feel like writing it, other times because I want to remember them.  I want to keep that part of me and I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to let that go.  I don’t necessarily live in the past, but I like to refer to it when needed.  Some days, I will look back when I’m depressed and see an entry about something ridiculous and remember that things do get better, no matter how bad they seem now. 
    I think, mainly, I keep them because I know (and have known since I was eight) that I wanted to write.  I wanted to be a writer and no matter what anyone told me about “that’s no way to live,” or “they don’t make any money.” I didn’t care.  I wanted that and I always have.  There is no doubt in my mind that I will be a writer.  I may write crappy sometimes, but I can edit, I can adjust my style, develop my characters.  I may never be published, but that makes no difference.  (This thinking may explain why I have 3 binders full of things I’ve writen since I was elementary-school age…).  I keep everything I write.  I know that one day, when I sit down and work on that work that will change things for me, I will use my experiences to shape my writing.  And, as I have a shitty memory, my journals are the only way I can access that. 

This is what I think.  This is what I know.