Prancing Nazis forcing me…

Passions are things that I suppose we all have, or wish we had. When there is something that you love to do, it doesn’t really matter if you’re good at it, you love to do it and it brings you pleasure, so you do it. There are so many thoughts swirling around in my head, I love it when I am able to grab one and hold onto it and write, and write, and have the writing be coherent. Writing is my passion, then why has it become such a bother? Why does a passion suddenly become something that you are forced to do, or only do out of habit?

I never really fancied myself a good writer. Writing was in my blood. My grandfather owned a newspaper, and my father worked there until he was well into his thirties. My life can be documented in his editorials which usually consisted of funny anecdotes of baby Kikki doing something crazy or cute. I couldn’t draw as a child, so I turned to writing, turning out serious papers which won writing contests in the fourth grade.

I remember my first writing contest that I won in the fourth grade. It was during Red Ribbon Week and we were told to write a paper about why cigarettes were bad, or something to that effect. I turned out a paper about how it gave my grandfather and two uncles lung cancer, leading to the death of my two uncles. I have to admit, some of it was ad libbed. I took some liberty and pretended as though I remembered being told that my father’s brother had lung cancer. This never really happened, the true cause of his death was a huge family secret for a long time, I was only inducted into the ‘know’ about six months ago. But, nonetheless, I was young kid, and they exploited my situation and gave me a trophy and a few days out of school. I was a happy camper.

But, I suppose the moral of this story is that I enjoyed writing it. They actually did not inform us that we were writing this for a contest until after we had turned it in. Then my teacher approached me and told me that they had chosen my paper to represent the school and go to the district contest (which i won).

Lately, however, writing has become a bore. I’m finding it harder to harness the complex ideas that i want to put across to the reader. I know that everytime i write something it can’t be totally deep and philosophical. But the problem is that I feel as though it isn’t worth my time if it’s not. I need everything to possess that mystical idealism that I live with everyday. (I know you’re laughing at my ‘mystical idealism’, Mer.)

I need writing exercises. I need something to help me put all of my thoughts in order and keep them cogent. Because they all blend together in a dizzying array of speech in my head and it’s a beautiful amalgamation there, but somehow it loses it’s magnificence when I begin typing. I have these moments throughout the day when I think, “I need to blog this.” But then I get home and I can’t remember how i was going to make this mean anything more than just something funny that I wanted to share with the blogosphere.

I mean, is that all a blog is? Is it simply a place for the blogger to share the ironic and funny experience he or she has? Is it a soapbox that we never have to get off of? Or is it a place for us to share the deepest thoughts of our souls? A place where we can be as blunt as we need and get to the plain facts and tear off the scabs that people have grown to reveal the raw and real truths of life?

That’s what i want. I want to be the person with the ductape to tear off your scabs which you’ve grown to protect yourself. You want to know why? Because I wear them, and I want more than anything for someone to come along with the proverbial ductape and to rip off the layers and to reveal who I really am. so that maybe I can really finally know for sure. I need to be that person so that one day, perhaps, i can turn the analysis around and I can analyse myself.

~kiki
(I don’t know where any of this came from, it does not leave the blogosphere. Dad(Cheryl): I don’t want to discuss it any further than this. )

~ by yellowdancerkikki on 9 June 2007.