Blog Archives

“Write on” and other puns writers probably don’t use, ever.

Originally posted on findingLA.wordpress.com

When I turned 11, my sister gave me a journal. It had Tigger on it, and blue paper. She liked to journal, and thought that I might enjoy it too.

Fast forward 27 years and 40 some odd blank books later, and I’ve discovered that I love to write.

Writing is something that’s just stuck with me. Journals, stories, one completed slightly true to life story of my freshman year of college, letters, blogs, poetry, anything that involves writing words down involves me.

So, you can imagine the annoying feeling of incompletion that I face anytime I have writer’s block. I’ll be staring down at a blank page, trying to think of something – anything– to write that isn’t trivial. And I’ll have nothing. Thanks for the Blank Space, T.Swift, but I’ve got nothing more than a name to fill you.

I’ve tried a few tricks over the years. I’ve used the scrapbooking technique, I’ve tried writers’ prompts, I’ve even attempted to type when I’m feeling incredibly blocked. But that comes with the dreaded delete button, where you might be able to take away everything you think is wrong but at the same time, you could be deleting something that could be really write right. 

Again, with the puns.

Yesterday, I was in the middle of a coloring day with the Boo. He had a doodle book, I had an adult coloring book – all the rage right now. And in the midst of this coloring, I felt a strange calmness come over me. Coloring within these lines was practically therapeutic. All you had to worry about was filling in the blanks and that was all she wrote. Er, drew.

So with that, I busted out my old school Gelly RollsBack in the day, I had a few dozen of these in every color and texture. Um, lightning ink? SIGN ME THE EFF UP.

Gelly Rolls

Something about the color on the page made me feel better instantly. It wasn’t just this terrible white page I had to fill, and it seemed suddenly more do-able. I doodled on a few pages, not filling the whole page, but giving myself blanks to fill, and things to remember, and goals to reach.

FullSizeRender 2

It made me feel more like I wanted to write, and less like I would cramp up within 30 seconds of cursive (Left handers, for the win). I even started busting out my collection of stamps and washi tape, to make things more interesting. And then, when I was done with that, I sat. And I wrote.

IMG_0054

What are your cures for writer’s block? Let me know in the comments!

Basically, my journals are my horcruxes, but not really.

If you haven’t read Harry Potter, you might wanna go the fuck away. One, because WHY NOT?! Two, because there’s sort of spoilers in here. Like seriously. Come back when you finish the series.

I’m such a pack rat, guys. Seriously. I save fucking everything.

I have all of the Blue and Whites from when I was in high school (that’s my high school newspaper). I have old corsages from dances. I have wristbands from particularly memorable nights out. I have ticket stubs. I have the chapstick of the guitarist from Sanctus Real from a concert I went to in high school.

I’m not kidding. And that is so fucking creepy. I’m embarrassed that I’m not kidding.

Among all the hubbub that I keep though, there is something that if you know me, I mean really, really know me, then you know I have these.

Journals. Scads and Scads and Scads of journals.

“It’s not a diary. Diaries lock. 12 year old girls keep diaries. This is a journal.”

That was my excuse to people, who thought it was strange that I was a 14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21, etc year old, carrying around a blank book to scribble in. We’ll see how you feel if I ever publish these beauties. Mostly, I just always wanted to be writing. Short stories, poetry, gossip, crush of the year/week/day/hour/minute when someone brushed me on the stairs. My 3rd period Honors English III teacher was THRILLED that I was always writing, although I think she wouldn’t have been as enthralled if she’d read some of what I’d written.

i’m trying not to think of you now

but i’m wringing out the towel

and every drop drips your name

and your face

and god

i wish the sun would dry you out

drive you out

drive me in and love me

(excerpt from a poem from 2003)

But I couldn’t stop. Years later, I look at these journals, and I’m not quite sure what to do with them. Do I want to get rid of them? No. Would you? It’s a pile of reminders of who I was, or who I was when I didn’t know who I was, or just memories of times and changes and people that I might lose otherwise.

But other than that? It’s a pile of books gathering dust under my bed.

Until.

I was reading Harry Potter, for the 210394823 time. Because it’s Harry Potter, and that’s what you do.

So, I’m reading HP, and I’m crying, and I’m trying not to drip my tears on my book, because I totally turned down a night of underage drinking in college to get the damn thing at midnight, when my friend Mohawk texts me.

20130805-111115.jpg

 

Like any 20 something folks that grew up in the mind of J.K. Rowling, we begin discussion of the book. He, of course, brings up the second best Headmaster in the history of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Snape. Snape. Severus Snape.

Which would be well and good until…

20130805-111121.jpg

And now we come full circle.

Journals.

Not just gathering dust under the bed. But useful when needed to one up someone in a debate on if or if not you considered Severus Snape to be a very, very bad man, or else you know…

Boom.

Boom. Courtesy of like journal…#34 or something.

I’ve never been so thrilled to have kept these books all these years.

20130805-111127.jpg

P.S. Dear J.K. Rowling,

If you happen to write another 7 books, could they maybe be about Sirius going through Hogwarts? Or James, or Remus, or Lily? I’ll settle for anyone except for Wormtail, cuz douchecanoe.

XO,

L.A.