When writing to inform, one must convey a clear idea. Otherwise, the audience sometimes feels separated and sifted into different levels of intelligence and worth, don't you think? In the life of a writer the difference between saying, "the person acted like an animal seeking revenge" and "animalistic revenge personified" is so crucial. So significant to the entire tone of a paragraph, of a page, of an entire piece of writing. I used to choose the latter. I'm a naturally deep writer. The words have their own personalities and they all work together to create (in the words of Lisa Smith one day: a giant monster baby of a poem.) I'm poetic. But, with my recent journalistic writing background in my undergraduate days, I've learned to be terse. And now, I'm afraid I'm just...boring. I've become a journalist! Oh, woe. I don't even write poetry anymore.
Being flowery and poetic all the time can get, well, how do I say, a little introverted and lonely. Hard to understand. If I told you some of these random poetic thoughts, you'd probably run the other way or stare at me blankly for about ten minutes. Or, you might know exactly what I'm saying, which is freaky because then I'd think of you as my soul mate, and that's just creepy. I've learned to sift my words into journalistic writing. Let me tell you why this is sad: the writer (not the poet) I've become.
Of course, as you well know, I'm being a little too critical of my own work. I'm ironically writing about it. It's how I function to compartmentalize my life, make it a little simpler. And, isn't it ironic that journalism is so incredibly complex and complicated when it shouldn't be? Same with my life. Stay with me if you want. Otherwise, go drink a Mountain Dew, make some baked goods, and watch some How I Met Your Mother...in that order.
I am continuously and painstakingly scrutinizing every word I think of, spoken or written. This leaks into other parts of my life, but we won't talk about some of my OCD tendencies. Even though words on a page finally become so clear to me, the rest of the world around me crumbles in a pile of journalistic and poetic cow dung. It's because I've lost a hold of that line between the two. I don't think I'm the only one. Did you know that blogging is a form of journalism now? What? And, of course, there's the *gasp* review. This isn't journalism. This is critical writing and journal entries. I can't believe my thoughts are in such dissaray over the fading definitions of two different types of writing. Seems trivial. But, technology and (ehem) the prestigious art world is putting terms together like blog journalism and new arts journalism (that's the graduate degree I'm working toward, by the way), and I can't help but speak out.
I'm confused all the time...but, continuously challenged. That's what education is supposed to do. And, at this age, that's what I'm supposed to be doing: learning, scrutinizing, discovering, and being a general mess. I'm writing all this down because it helps me with each of these things. Plus, I feel as though writing a blog lets me throw out my thoughts to those who will listen...or read. So, if you're out there, thanks for it.
But, know this: my blog is not a form of journalism, and I am not trying to be a journalist right now. It's a medium for finding the balance in me between critic and my 5-year-old curious self. I seem to have lost that childlike wonder most days, especially when I'm bombarded with assigned critical thinking about critically thinking about art and writing.
In order to keep you coming back (not that you have to - I just like you), I want to share with you a story I found earlier today. It sums up my life...if I were a sock, I think. And, as for making a pair of socks...if you're out there, soul mate who can understand my poetry, this one's for you. Cheers!
From Lost: A sock speaks out:
"Let me begin by sharing what I am not. I'm not a fancy argyle. Nope. That is SO not me, people!
And I certainly don't pretent to have cashmere tastes. One-hundred percent cotton--that's me, from a long, proud family of sports socks in the midwest. My geneology is nothing remarkable, but I want you to know, I've warmed many a foot in my time.
Life has never been the same since that agitating day when Man stepped up to the washer and began his dirty deed. (He should have known to separate colors from whites...but Woman was away for the day and...oh, it's almost too painful to describe what I went through.)"
As spoken by my father in reference to my life (thanks, Dad and Full Metal Jacket):
"In other words, it's a huge shit sandwich, and we're all gonna have to take a bite."