I love this!!!!
Thursday, 9 February 2012
Valentine's Day Blues?
I actually quite like Valentine's Day. I can actually vow I have no reason romantically to love it, but I do like it. For the last few years now I have set up (with myself) "The Singles Club" where I will send out all my single girl friends a card just to let them know that I love them and spread the love & happiness. After all, Valentine's Day is about showing the love!
One word of advice though.... put your name on the card. You do not want your friend thinking that it is their secret crush. Epic fail on my part that time... :S
Other than that, my advice is always to spread the love!
Or, if you prefer not to subscribe to the commercialism, see here for amazing anti-Valentine's Day cards:
(Link courtesy of Paddy Mayo!)
Happy Mailing!
Who Would Want to be a Writer?
Hands up? Well, me.
Although I do realise that I have a complete lack of discipline when it comes to writing, I want to be a writer and I often make notes of things I would like to write about, but I lack the will-power and the confidence to sit and write.
There is often a strong element of self-reflection when writing, and since I suffer from the worst case of head-in-sand-burying you have ever seen, I often fear what I would write. And in equal measures, I fear what someone would think if they read it.
This leads naturally to the question I ask myself: why do I write? Why does anyone write?
Often it is to fulfil an egotistical urge on the part of the individual who believes that what they write is of some importance, possibly even of intrinsic value, to society. Others do it to assuage their feelings and to see their thoughts in words to analyse their thoughts, feel a sense of release; it can be comforting. It is usually these latter people who rarely get published. And it is also difficult to know how many of them there are out there that do this, as it can be a secretive business.
I like to write. I am an old fashioned paper and fountain pen type embodying a Jane Austen-esque approach, but in a way that I would not want my letters read etc apart from the intended recipient. Like Cassandra burnt her letters, I would like to think the same. Perhaps it is this historical and literature precedent that I adhere to that terrifies me from writing more in my diary? On the other hand, what I think may be more accurate is the fear of writing what I actually feel and facing up to it. I feel that what I write is inconsequential because what I write is a facade of what I want myself to believe.
Then the question arises... why I am I writing on here? Egotism? Probably. Feel that what I have to say is important? No. Not really. Seeking reassurance? Most assuredly.
So writing is this self-illuminating and terrifying ordeal, often prescribed for those with mental and/or psychological issues.
The next question then comes- are all those who write writers? In my mind, yes. In some bigoted literary view, probably not. But as Margaret Atwood states: "Pen is Envy".
A mock on the Freudian phrase 'Penis Envy', Atwood in The Handmaid's Tale shows how the ability to be able to write, to transcribe one's feelings is a feeling inherent to the human psyche. We need to share feelings. We need to express ourselves. To take that away is to deprive ourselves.
Therefore, this blog, which I waffle so much on, is more of a build up to writing, privately, what I want to be able write. To write publicly on topics distanced from myself, like to write or not to write, can allow me a cathartic assuage of thoughts which will one day amount to me finding the truth within myself.
Over the top? Yes. Over wrought? Oh, definitely. Feeling better? I can honestly say yes.
Even writing about the unimportant things in life can be the most rewarding process. Just to order thoughts articulately and convey them = one of the best gifts that make us human. From Charles Darwin to Charles Dickens, they would be proud...
(By the way, the catalyst to this waffling yarn? See here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2012/feb/09/author-film?CMP=twt_fd )
Although I do realise that I have a complete lack of discipline when it comes to writing, I want to be a writer and I often make notes of things I would like to write about, but I lack the will-power and the confidence to sit and write.
There is often a strong element of self-reflection when writing, and since I suffer from the worst case of head-in-sand-burying you have ever seen, I often fear what I would write. And in equal measures, I fear what someone would think if they read it.
This leads naturally to the question I ask myself: why do I write? Why does anyone write?
Often it is to fulfil an egotistical urge on the part of the individual who believes that what they write is of some importance, possibly even of intrinsic value, to society. Others do it to assuage their feelings and to see their thoughts in words to analyse their thoughts, feel a sense of release; it can be comforting. It is usually these latter people who rarely get published. And it is also difficult to know how many of them there are out there that do this, as it can be a secretive business.
I like to write. I am an old fashioned paper and fountain pen type embodying a Jane Austen-esque approach, but in a way that I would not want my letters read etc apart from the intended recipient. Like Cassandra burnt her letters, I would like to think the same. Perhaps it is this historical and literature precedent that I adhere to that terrifies me from writing more in my diary? On the other hand, what I think may be more accurate is the fear of writing what I actually feel and facing up to it. I feel that what I write is inconsequential because what I write is a facade of what I want myself to believe.
Then the question arises... why I am I writing on here? Egotism? Probably. Feel that what I have to say is important? No. Not really. Seeking reassurance? Most assuredly.
So writing is this self-illuminating and terrifying ordeal, often prescribed for those with mental and/or psychological issues.
The next question then comes- are all those who write writers? In my mind, yes. In some bigoted literary view, probably not. But as Margaret Atwood states: "Pen is Envy".
A mock on the Freudian phrase 'Penis Envy', Atwood in The Handmaid's Tale shows how the ability to be able to write, to transcribe one's feelings is a feeling inherent to the human psyche. We need to share feelings. We need to express ourselves. To take that away is to deprive ourselves.
Therefore, this blog, which I waffle so much on, is more of a build up to writing, privately, what I want to be able write. To write publicly on topics distanced from myself, like to write or not to write, can allow me a cathartic assuage of thoughts which will one day amount to me finding the truth within myself.
Over the top? Yes. Over wrought? Oh, definitely. Feeling better? I can honestly say yes.
Even writing about the unimportant things in life can be the most rewarding process. Just to order thoughts articulately and convey them = one of the best gifts that make us human. From Charles Darwin to Charles Dickens, they would be proud...
(By the way, the catalyst to this waffling yarn? See here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2012/feb/09/author-film?CMP=twt_fd )
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