Notes-to-Self: from 1.31.12

by laura didyk


What am I really doing when I sit down to write? What am I doing except sitting and typing and writing about me, me, me. And what’s the point? 

If I think through to the end of these questions, there lies a whole group of new ones: What else should I be doing? Work a job I don’t like but that makes sense to other people, and so I have a good answer when someone asks me what I do? Do nothing but eating and watching bad TV? Why would another activity be or feel more worthy or productive? And who says?

If I want to write about my life, I should write about my life. Plenty of people do it. Some do it horribly—untrained, and unaware of the capacity of a reader’s interest. Some do it with a an aplomb (Didion, Oates) that makes me ache. Others do it and don’t bother so much with exploring too far beneath the surface (but make me laugh nonetheless…I’m thinking Sedaris, Vowell, etc). In almost all cases, and in short, they, all of them, do their own thing, do what they want, and keep going. The only difference between them and me so far is that they have written books, and I have not. Getting published is a whole other thing to write about, but one thing at a time.

So I guess what I’m saying is: I, too, can do my own thing.

Not *can*, need to. And am. Here I go. Me. Me. Me.

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Notes-to-Self are real-life excerpts of resurrected insight from real-life notebooks. (What do your old notebooks still want you to know? Feel free to share it in the comments section, if you’re feeling generous…)

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