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Sitting in the the library, bored, and for some reason I cannot collect thoughts when not in front of my desktop. So I’m just gonna ramble a bit. Apparently I can’t form sentences either.
Being a writer has brought unexpected consequences. Whenever I do something, whether it be sitting in class, extreme sledding, watching tv or thinking, I’m always trying to come up with ways to put the activity into words; my internal editor is running constantly, formatting thoughts so I can spew them forth for easy digestion by others. At first it was kind of fun, and I approached it as a challenge. The guy that scrubs the floor in Stadium. I think it’s funny, but how would I write a blurb about that? For the past year I’ve been ironing details and formatting generals, and my writing has improved considerably as a result.
But I feel dead inside. Sometimes I feel like I’m not directly interacting with the world, but experiencing it only through my writing. While my goal is to write accounts of life that people find fun and interesting, it seems I can’t enjoy the moment anymore, unless I can remember it for a later Cromlech entry.
I love reading other people’s work (humor columns, books, magazines, blogs, etc…) but I’m so busy picking the words apart I don’t see the ideas anymore. I am like the crab I saw in a California aquarium thirteen years ago. His life consisted of scuttling about the tank, gluing bits of coral and junk to his shell.