This above all: To thine own self be true
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"That reminds me, there is this piece I've been wanting to write about something that happened to me in Boston. It was just so amazing, the experience. I can't even quite describe it, but it was just so...I need to sit down and write about it before I lose all the emotion." My friend's eyes had lit up with excitement. The lack of detail made it so that I could not revel in that particular moment of which he spoke, but I appreciated the general sentiment.
"What are you writing it for?" I thought for a moment perhaps he had a blog or some other public outlet through which I could enjoy his work.
"Nothing specific. Just, for myself. Whenever I have an experience that I feel is noteworthy or that I want to be memorable, I write about it. I include a lot of detail and spend a good amount of time editing it and stuff so that it's a really awesome piece of writing."
"Maybe all your texts will be discovered posthumously," I joked. My joke was only to cover what I was truly feeling, which was a sort of embarrassment with myself for having immediately assumed that he was creating for someone or something other than himself. His passion, after all, should have been enough.
I have been writing since I could hold a pencil. Until middle school, I kept a journal in which I would record the daily goings-on in my life, always starting with "Today, I woke up..." After all, you can't do anything until you wake up. In anticipation of any private matters that might come up (none ever did), I guarded this journal with lock and key.
Sometimes I would go days, or even weeks, without writing. As more and more time passed, I would be overcome with a sort of anxiety. That which comes with a sense of incompleteness. I would reprimand myself and continually include journal-writing on my daily to-do list. Finally, I would force myself to sit down, and for as long as it would take, recollect everything I had done each day since I had last written. Of course, I would never lead on in the actual writing that I was retroactively journaling. Each day started with "Today, I woke up..."
Sometimes I would go days, or even weeks, without writing. As more and more time passed, I would be overcome with a sort of anxiety. That which comes with a sense of incompleteness. I would reprimand myself and continually include journal-writing on my daily to-do list. Finally, I would force myself to sit down, and for as long as it would take, recollect everything I had done each day since I had last written. Of course, I would never lead on in the actual writing that I was retroactively journaling. Each day started with "Today, I woke up..."
As I entered my teenage years, journal-writing became more therapeutic. I wrote about my life -- thoughts, fears, accomplishments -- at a a higher level. On a more grander scale than the day-to-day. I ended each entry with "lOvE aLwAyS aNd FoReVeR," yes, in camel case, followed by my signature. I don't know who I was writing for, nobody in particular, and perhaps even nobody at all. All I knew was that the pages' ability to eat my words and cushion my emotions was unrivaled by any other worldly entity.
I had this romantic notion of my "texts" being excavated by future scholars, but was not really prepared for anyone I knew to read any of it. Ever. Even today, I will argue that not enough time has passed for me to feel comfortable sharing that writing in any forum. It's my private classifieds.
For a brief period after I started my public blog, I maintained a personal journal as well. But soon after, the blog consumed all my effort and attention. The extrinsic motivation -- approval from friends and family, public endorsements in the form of blog competitions, retweets, Facebook likes and comments -- was far too addictive. As I wrote each post, I was distracted by how the sentences or words might be interpreted by others first, before I interpreted them for myself.
Recently, I've tucked myself into a personal book-writing project. While I plan to publish the work at some point, the day-to-day writing has been a thrilling rediscovery and exploration of my personal passion. It's an intimate process, where I'm writing truly for myself.
At the beginning of each of my yoga classes, we spend a few seconds setting "a dedication," as my instructor calls it, for our practice. Something we want to keep in our semi-conscious as the subconscious takes control. Last week, our instructor provided some Emersonian guidance. "In the spirit of Thanksgiving, forget all the external stuff. Think about something intrinsic for which you are thankful. Something that, no matter what happens around you in, in this world, with the people you know, will remain with you. That's the thing that stabilizes you. That keeps you going through thick and thin. Be grateful for that." If you think about it, that which he describes is what grounds us as individuals. If you ask me, that thing is passion.
Today, so much of what we do is for external appearances. Be it for a grade at school, a promotion at work, or Likes and comments on the web. I often find myself wondering if we would say or do the things we do, go the places that we go, document the scenes that we instagram, if it weren't for the opportunity of public validation. If the answer is yes for any of those things, then that is true passion. Hold fast to those aspects of your life and never let go.
It is not to say that we should not do things for others, but it is to prevent ourselves from doing things for others under the pretense that we are doing them for ourselves. Whatever happens, don't feel selfish. If you are anything like my literary friend who introduced this post, the time you spend drafting, editing, and perfecting that personal passion will inject itself into all other aspects of your life, and the people in your life. And that's something for which both you, and they, can be thankful.
And despite my criticism of this particular medium for my writing, as we approach Thanksgiving, I do want to thank you, for reading even a sentence or a word. You have helped me to grow not only as a burgeoning writer, but also as a person.
Recently, I've tucked myself into a personal book-writing project. While I plan to publish the work at some point, the day-to-day writing has been a thrilling rediscovery and exploration of my personal passion. It's an intimate process, where I'm writing truly for myself.
At the beginning of each of my yoga classes, we spend a few seconds setting "a dedication," as my instructor calls it, for our practice. Something we want to keep in our semi-conscious as the subconscious takes control. Last week, our instructor provided some Emersonian guidance. "In the spirit of Thanksgiving, forget all the external stuff. Think about something intrinsic for which you are thankful. Something that, no matter what happens around you in, in this world, with the people you know, will remain with you. That's the thing that stabilizes you. That keeps you going through thick and thin. Be grateful for that." If you think about it, that which he describes is what grounds us as individuals. If you ask me, that thing is passion.
Today, so much of what we do is for external appearances. Be it for a grade at school, a promotion at work, or Likes and comments on the web. I often find myself wondering if we would say or do the things we do, go the places that we go, document the scenes that we instagram, if it weren't for the opportunity of public validation. If the answer is yes for any of those things, then that is true passion. Hold fast to those aspects of your life and never let go.
It is not to say that we should not do things for others, but it is to prevent ourselves from doing things for others under the pretense that we are doing them for ourselves. Whatever happens, don't feel selfish. If you are anything like my literary friend who introduced this post, the time you spend drafting, editing, and perfecting that personal passion will inject itself into all other aspects of your life, and the people in your life. And that's something for which both you, and they, can be thankful.
And despite my criticism of this particular medium for my writing, as we approach Thanksgiving, I do want to thank you, for reading even a sentence or a word. You have helped me to grow not only as a burgeoning writer, but also as a person.
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