When I was in middle and high school, I filled a series of brightly-colored journals with the details of my days and adolescent reflections with many, many pages devoted to whomever I was crushing on that week. My senior year, I wrote near-daily posts on a Xanga back when Xangas were cool.
Sidebar: I use the term “cool” loosely.
I’ve written a column on my experiences while studying abroad and an entire blog on my misadventures in dating. I’m currently scribbling letters to my future husband, a project which has become perhaps a bit less prayerful and a bit more therapeutic the more pages I fill up in the manliest notebook I could find.
I have long flirted with the idea of becoming a novelist, but to date, I only have a couple dozen short stories and a handful of emo-tastic poems to my name. I’ve attempted to summit Mount NaNoWriMo twice, failing both times to spin into a book the one tuft of a story I could imagine teens and their cool aunts reading in a coffee shop and fangirling over on Tumblr.
Perhaps it’s special snowflake syndrome born of my being the baby of the family, but I’ve always thought my life was made up of a series of stories worth telling—and tell them I do, usually more than once and always with emphatic gesturing and occasional pantomime.
However, it occurs to me that in order to call oneself a writer, one must actually write. And I haven’t been doing much of that of late.
Back in January, as part of Blessed is She‘s #ProjectBlessed Instagram challenge, I said that one of my dreams was to live a life worth writing about—and actually record it. Wouldn’t you know I haven’t written a word in the three months since then?
So, in the spirit of forging new habits, I’ve carved out this space to write. Some posts may be fictions and figments; some may be memoirs in miniature. Some may be ruminations on topics serious, while others may be purely picayune in nature.
Sidebar: I like alliteration. I will not apologize.
Steven Moffat has committed many a literary sin in my eyes, but he did give his Doctor a line once I have long loved: “We’re all stories, in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?”
Here’s to good stories…welcome to Scribbles & Jots.
|photo by sarah horrigan|