Sunday Night Sketching

Today my friend Abby and I went shopping in the Southcenter/Renton area. This turned out to be a terrible (awesome) idea. Below, my purchases:

-An excessive amount of picture frames for photos I probably won't get around to printing for a really, really long time

-South of Broad, a book that had to buy (even though school starts imminently) because it is based in South Carolina and has an idyllic drawing of a little southern town on the cover

-A Disney Princess sticker book, that I convinced myself I will use for a collage in one of the picture frames mentioned above

-Three huge candles that were 50% off and don't have holders

-A bag of Swedish Fish (from Ikea)

And finally... a sketchpad and charcoals. In effect, a lot of stuff I do not need. But in my defense I did eat most of the Swedish Fish, and, to prove to myself that I didn't waste $10 on a bunch of black sooty rocks, I drew a little eye. See below.

So worth it.

Setting Out

I recently found a plethora of old diaries while deep-cleaning my bedroom. To my disappointment, but unsurprisingly, a few had a page or two of writing, and the rest were empty - testimony to the fact that I've never been enamored with journaling. To be honest with myself, I might never be. I think two fears are at play.

I've always struggled to find my own voice when I write, and I honestly believe that my childhood obsession with reading fiction (especially historical fiction journals - Dear America series, anyone?) has something to do with it. When I write about myself, I want to explain what I truly feel, but my words always seem overly dramatized, pretentious, and novel-esque. I seem to be able to write in anyone's voice but my own. A pilgrim, a British queen, a pioneer, a sailor - I can immediately imagine what they would say, how they would say it - but myself? I have no clue, and never have. I remember struggling through "morning pages" in my high school creative writing class, attempting to write in stream-of-conscience but just wanting to detail anyone else's life but my own and ending up with the blabber of a ten-year-old. I am able to pour out words in my hardest times, and I have written a few pages of intense introspection at church retreats or on mission trips, but these are rare occasions. When I am not highly emotional or encouraged, I don't write about myself. I don't know how to write me.

Secondly, I tend to stay away from journals because they have always seemed horribly burdensome. I remember one period in junior high when I tried to write in a diary every day, and it was torturous. I stayed up an extra two hours each night in bed trying to get every boring event down - and that journal lasted less than a week. I just didn't see the payoff.

Recently, however, a few of my friends have finally inspired me to face my fear of journaling and make a compromise: a blog. Here's my deal to myself: I will post whenever, and whatever. And here's my hope: Without the paralyzing pressure of feeling the need to chronicle every anxiety, idea, meal, shopping excursion, and embarrassing moment that has always scared me away from fully dedicating myself to a journal; without the worry that my words won't be cohesive, or eloquent, or written in the perfect "voice;" without even making my blog a "journal," in the diary sense - hopefully this way I can just get something down. Over the past few years I've begun to realize that writing down your thoughts is an amazing way to grow, and maybe with this blog I will begin to discover more of myself. No promises of anything groundbreaking or inspiring - sometimes I just need to share what's on my heart.