PUTTING IT TOGETHER

I've really been neglecting my blog. Life obviously took precedence over my desire to post. The thing is, I've been writing my entire life...and though I was on hiatus, I've wondered if I should stop blogging, but in one way, to stop now seems silly. My desire to create stories and connect people through common experiences has been what I've loved to do since I was a little girl. Some of my earliest memories include sitting with my mom at our kitchen table (as early as 3 years old), dictating my stories -- she'd write them down and I'd later add my illustrations. Writing became such an enjoyable way to spend my time that I wrote as often as I could about anything that interested me. During summer vacations from school, I could be found sitting in my dad's home office, typing away and creating stories more often than you would find me playing with my friends. I created my own story ideas and scripts of my favorite TV shows, fictionalized my fantasy life as an adolescent, hand wrote (at 170-some odd pages) my idea of a sequel to my favorite film and hoped to educate others through my writing.

In high school, I was lucky enough to be picked as a student staff writer for the leading newspapers in the county. I had the amazing opportunity to go on-set of some of my favorite TV shows to interview the talent that I idolized. While writing about Hollywood and TV were fantastic experiences, I was also given an opportunity to write about those subjects that weren't as "exciting" but were more important because they dealt with real people and real life.

I didn't expect the articles I wrote about young people who had handicaps to be life changing, nor did I expect that it would be the most widely read articles. I did know though that someone was reading it, someone had to be. I knew that in writing those articles, I was educating whoever was reading my work and that if one person read it, that was one person more who would be made more aware. Who though was benefiting most from my desire to write? Was it my readers or was it me? Was I writing purely for selfish reasons? I'm still not entirely clear on that motive because though I was educating people, I was educating myself by the research, the interviews and conversations and in formulating what to write. The process of and then the act itself of writing about "handicapped" people was almost more an education in empathy for myself than anything else.

My point? I'm not sure I have one. Though I have been AWOL on this blog for quite sometime now, I'm thinking that I am doing the biggest disservice to myself by not writing. Writing and singing are my favorite emotional releases and when I started this post, I was all wound up about other thoughts flailing around in my head...and while they are still there, I'm far less wound up because I've been able to write. My thoughts may sound disjointed in this post, but really I do have a point...and I think I've figured it out.

As someone I admire once wrote:

"Bit by bit, putting it together.
Piece by piece, working out the vision night and day.
All it takes is time and perseverance
And a little luck along the way."

THE IMPOSSIBLE DREAM...?

Though I mostly write about theater in this blog, I do have other interests, one of them being writing in an attempt to fulfill my overactive imagination.

Recently, I came upon a basket of old stories I knew I had but hadn't looked at since my youth. Back in those days, I had a pretty vivid imagination and loved to tell stories of the life I wish I lead. Mostly, I wrote about being friends with teen sitcom actors of the '80s, Bette Midler (back then, I was obsessed with Beaches and even hand-wrote 176 pages of what I thought the sequel should be) and a few script/story ideas for shows like Who's the Boss and somewhere there's one for Saved by the Bell. Ever since I pulled those old dot-matrix printed copies out from hiding, I keep thinking about how much I used to enjoy writing.

Don't get me wrong, I was a "cool" kid...but during my summer vacations, I found more pleasure in settling into my dad's home office and letting my imagination soar as I saved all of my ideas onto my own old school DOS floppy disk. I could sit for hours writing and often did. I hung out (or "played" as I guess we called it too) with my friends from time to time, but it was far more rewarding for me to create scenarios for myself interacting with Mark-Paul Gosselaar or Danica McKellar or being someone of influence. On some level, even at 10, 11 & 12 years old, I thought my writing was brilliant and that someday, when I became an "adult," I would achieve something amazing and that my writing would be equally recognized. Yes, I had quite the imagination and an even larger ego...particularly back then.

Back in the day, I was an avid reader too and would tear through the recent copies of The Baby-Stitter's Club or Sweet Valley High and wonder if one day I would be the next Ann M. Martin or Francine Pasqual. I loved to write because I loved the creativity and the idea of fulfilling my greatest fantasies. I found inspiration in Laura Ingalls Wilder's tales of life on the prairie and in the passion L.M. Montomery's Emily (from the Emily of New Moon Series) had for writing. It's funny...ever since I graduated from college, I don't read much of anything anymore -- it's even hard enough to get through a copy of InStyle these days. Since I stopped reading, I've also stopped writing almost altogether (except for those times when I get a burst of energy and I post something here). Back then, I always had something to say or a story to tell...I had an uninhibited imagination.

I think I realized back then that everybody has a story to tell and even though my thoughts and ideas might not appeal to everyone, the effects of my imagination might inspire somebody else and how great is that? I know it sounds perhaps a little presumptuous, but I think I always thought or maybe hoped, that on some level, I was destined for greatness and somehow each time I created these stories, I was one step closer to achieving it. As an adult, it's always a struggle to find your way back to the ideas and dreams you once held dearly...particularly when you are consciously aware that you temporarily abandoned it.

Is it possible to be so fatigued that your brain just...fizzles? For the last 6 months, I've been feeling so exhausted (both emotionally and otherwise) I feel like my brain has just stopped functioning. At first I was afraid something might be wrong with me because I couldn't concentrate on much of anything, then I began to forget how to spell words, what I was trying to say and then the worst was when I felt like I was losing my short term memory. If you asked me what I did yesterday or worse, last weekend, I honestly couldn't tell you. Isn't that awful? A wise friend assured me it was stress as she had gone through it too. It's awful what stress could do to person.

It really bothers me that my writing and my thoughts are all so short and choppy. I go into work these days and freak out because while my job isn't that brain intensive, it does require some amount of creativity...and I can't even do that. I sit there in meetings and feel like a total loser because I don't have the ability to contribute anything. And it's not like I don't try to contribute...I do, but then...nothing. How pitiful.

A few times a year, I go through a "what am I doing" phase and try to assess my life and make some decisions. I keep thinking that I wouldn't be feeling this way if I were truly doing what I wanted to in life. What is it that I want to do? I have a few ideas, but in Southern California...it just doesn't seem possible. Maybe I need to exercise my brain...doing something I love. Usually I come home from work, so exhausted that I can't do much of anything except sit on the couch and watch tv (or a dvd, even easier that way I don't have to exert too much energy by changing the channel!!!) but that only encourages my sedentary brain waves to remain as such.

To top it off, I just bought some plum wine today (very exciting to test my new discovery) and it SUCKS! It tastes like blechhhh, awful, icky, dry wine and I d-e-s-p-i-s-e dry drinks...I like sweet, fruity, yummy drinks (hence the plum wine) and now I can't even enjoy it.

Ok folks, back to my complaining...but how dull, how been-there-done-that. I can't complain any more...I know too many people whose only pleasure in life is to complain about thisandthat and it gets OLD fast. How depressing...how wrong. Ok...I'll stop now.