Hello blogosphere, hello blog, hello world, goodnight moon. It has been a long time since I last blogged. In fact, it’s 2011 and I have yet to write a single thing on here. I know, I know, the pain is unbearable. Forgive me. Pardon my rudeness, but I’m sure you’ll get over it.
But why, you ask, am I back? What could you, oh great blogosphere, have to offer me? I’m not entirely sure. I think that’s something I need to figure out. The other day I was looking through my old blog posts and I had a realization—This is me. My old blog posts are primitive, edgy, raw, original Chris Clark.
This semester I have been taking an extended narrative writing class and have been writing a memoir. At the moment my working title is “My Badass Memoir: Reflections on How I Got This Cool” because I think that’s what it may ultimately be. Or maybe it will just be all about sex and rock and roll and my obsession with the female race. I don’t know, I haven’t decided yet.
Anyway, I’ve been struggling quite a bit with going back to my native form after 2.5 years of experimenting with essays, fiction, flash fiction, nonfiction shorts, and even, ick, poetry. When I first started as a writing major I decided that nonfiction prose was something that I had already mastered through my blog and that I should spend some time broadening my horizons by learning to write some different forms and genres, and this commitment has served me well. I am now semi-capable of writing coherent fiction, and slightly more proficient at flash fiction. I even churned out a poem or two, though my class didn’t understand that in one poem I meant “fuck” as a verb and not an expletive and I’m not sure if I can get away with the fact that I referenced Flight of the Conchords in another, especially because it was about breasts.
But back to my main point. I have now come back to this autobiographical memoir-esque prose, the form that birthed me and, as a dear writer friend of mine might refer to it as, “the language I cry in.” Now that I have come full circle and am again exploring that subject most fascinating to me, myself, I find that I’m not sure I know how to do it anymore. Perhaps I never did. Yet here I am again. 410 words just poured out of my soul in an uncensored stream of natural writing. This is the fountain of youth which I seek. Yet I cannot capture this in my memoir work for my class. Perhaps I am too afraid. Perhaps there are too many distractions. Perhaps I simply do not know.
My memoir work for class continually seems to come out of me forced and pedantically dogmatic, almost as if I am trying to prove to the world that my account of my life is the only correct way to view it. As if in 10 pages I can attempt to sum up my existence, print it out, and hand it in for a grade. I think I am afraid. I know I am afraid. I’m afraid to admit that I am afraid.
Back in the golden age of this blog I would write posts that would reveal everything about me. I would hide nothing. But now each and every blog post I write gets imported to Facebook and, because of the nature of our ridiculous culture, I am friends on Facebook with people that I simply would not consider friends in real life. In fact, I am Facebook friends with people that, behind the iron curtain of my mind, I could only think of as bitchy or dickish. By the way, if the increased profanity of my blog surprises you remember that I have aged several years since I last wrote consistently and that now, more than ever, I am aiming for genuineness in my writing. Again to my main point. One good way to illustrate which friends I’m talking about would be to watch the comments at the bottom of this post. Those currently considering commenting on how I am terrible for saying both “fuck” and “bitchy” in the same post are exactly the type of people who I would classify as bitchy and politely ask to fuck off so I can continue my writing.
Due to the quality of these Facebook friends I have for a very long time felt that I may not be willing to blog anymore because I don’t want to be that vulnerable with people like that. It’s true that I could disable the import of blog posts to Facebook or that I could simply tone down my writing, but if I do that why am I even writing anymore? Why write only to hide it? Why write only to water it down?
But now I have decided that once again I must return to the Blogosphere in order to find myself. I must once again write whatever I feel like, comments enabled, and just live it. I need to write without thinking about a grade or a critique group. I just need to freaking write! I need to return here, to my roots, and become a writer once again.
What does it mean to become a writer once again? I think it means several things, but the first and most important I must write here. I have already written and deleted this paragraph 3 times because I can rationalize it away. “This post is too long.” “You don’t have to do that.” And worst “If you write that here you might actually live it.” That last thought is horrifying. What I am speaking about is cutting out distractions. This summer I was uncomfortable confronted with the realization that if I want to take my writing seriously I need to live a writer’s life. Right now I’m more of a gamer. But what do I want to be, a writer or a gamer?
The first way my mind wants to frame this question is to say “Do I want to do something that is just fun and games or do I want to do something that is hard, heart wrenching, and often unrewarding.” Yet then there is that little jerk in the back of my mind that whispers, “Do you want to be a consumer or a creator? Do you want to rule a fantasy world or be a truer lens to the real one?” Out of a burst of conviction I have just uninstalled all the games I had on my computer, (Assassin’s Creed, Combat Arms, and Vindictus. Quite a party to say the least) a gesture I can only hope will last.
So maybe this is my way of triumphantly announcing my return to the blogosphere. Maybe you are as skeptical as I am that I am actually returning. I mean, it would certainly fit my pattern to write a few mediocre posts and then drop back into obscurity and meaninglessness. But all I can say is that this time I hope for more than that.
Until then I encourage your comments, bitchy or otherwise (I promise not to tell you to fuck off), and I hope that you enjoyed, or were at least as enthralled by, this post as much as I.
Eternally your starving artist, struggling memoirist, writer wannabe,
Chris
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