Passing Time

So, I'm sitting here trying to pass the time, listening to Tracy Chapman on my iPod and drinking hot chocolate. Its so hard to see this white box in front of me screaming for my fingers to add letters so that it says something interesting. But what does it matter if I add anything to this white void? I have a video to add, but I'm on the wrong computer for that right now. Video blogs are interesting, aren't they? They don't require any effort on the part of the viewer. As long as the video creators can entertain, the work stops there. But it takes effort to read the words I add to this blank space.

Once read however, it doesn't take any effort to assume.

I have been feeling so discouraged when it comes to writing lately. A professor told me I had no style. I have people who read what I write and tell me that it is too long. I have people who read what I write and give me hell about who or what is between the lines of each sentence I spell out.

Someday, I hope I can sit down and let my fingers dance along the keyboard so that somehow a story will come out that everyone will want to read. But, I fear that the psychosis that has given me my story will also be the psychosis that keeps me silent. It isn't until I sit with a pen in my hand or a blank screen and keyboard that I feel like I am finally looking into the clearest mirror ever. Everything else somehow clouds this person I know. Am I the girl in the photographs or the videos? I am always so surprised when I see myself in those mediums because I don't recognize the person there. I don't know what image I would recognize, maybe I don't even know the image of myself? I am an idea though. But the idea is never thought through. It is never realized.

I want to have memories. I was rereading a short story from my Canadian Literature class while preparing for my upcoming exam. It was about a writer who immigrated from India to Canada and wrote about his life in India more often than his life in Canada. The short story I was reading showed his parents commenting on his writing and being somewhat disappointed that it didn't speak more to his life in Canada. The father theorized however that it takes 10 years to really separate oneself from memory so much that you can write about it clearly. 10 years. That's half of my life. The past ten years are therefore still fraught with emotions so that I cannot quite understand them or their impact on my life. I have no memories I can write about, no memories I can turn into a story.

What would it take for you to enjoy what I say? Who likes literature anymore anyway? I am a part of such an attention deficit society that I even find the videos annoying and boring at times. Entertain me! Entertain me! I understand your point of view; I don't even like what I have to say.

But I'm just passing time, remember.