The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies.
Football Offers a Bonus Opportunity
Since Pat's watching Boise State and another team battle it out, I have no excuse not to sit down and relax with my blog. Five friends and I meet on Monday nights -- except last semester, when I had class on Mondays -- and we jam about Creativity.
Tonight, I reminded myself aloud that no matter the quality of my creative voice, it is unique. And that I love blogging vs. tweeting because with blogging, I can lose myself, whereas with tweeting, I am ultra-self-conscious.
There's less discipline with blogging, the way I do it, but more satisfaction ultimately. Most often, I feel at least somewhat sated when I'm done.
What is it about friends, talking about creativity that helps me *be* more creative? I feel less alone in my fears and doubts. I feel more connected that others want to spend their free time, being self-expressive.
Tonight, I was also reminded that I consider swimming an art along with writing, as it lets me express myself, too. A friend teaches yoga in addition to painting and I swim in addition to writing.
My trunk felt strong and useful in the pool this morning. It was the engine for my arms especially. My backstroke felt almost elegant.
I'm not lost yet. In today's "New York Times," I read an article, which ended with the columnist, talking about how the potential Apple tablet would be the most exciting thing to come along, since the comic-book ads for miniature sea-horses that he saw as an eight-year-old boy.
At eight, the coolest things to me were Lego; a doll that looked like a Buckingham Palace guard; rocks and minerals; oranges picked fresh from my grandmother's grove in Israel; penny-candy; and the X-ray glasses you could buy from the back of comic books, too.
At my adult age now, I cannot think of anything purchasable, or potentially so, that has excited me more than those items, except maybe Rollerblades.
I find myself replaying my swim in my head now, and maybe I'll go to bed and do that, or imagine I'm rollerblading. When I used to downhill-ski, that's how I'd fall asleep at night on the days we did it; I'd see the trail in front of me and ski it.
Showing posts with label self-conscious writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self-conscious writing. Show all posts
Monday, January 4, 2010
Saturday, October 18, 2008
I'm Hungry...
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
To Recover My Creativity
I want to write about the Cat Show at Madison Square Garden or the Economy or "Saturday Night Live," but I'm feeling too self-conscious.
Today, I decided to give myself the gift of focusing exclusively on my writing, rather than cramming it in around everything else I'm doing. That's turning out to be self-consciousness-producing.
Too bad. It's important to express myself, even if I'm listening too hard to each syllable as my fingertips slowly press it out.
Healthy Pressure
The artists support group I go to on Monday nights has agreed to devote on Monday a month to an Action Plan meeting.
That Monday is tomorrow night. Oy! The Plan will require each of us to declare and commit to what we'll do in a particular period of time to further our art. What I'd rather do today and forever is focus on petting the purring kitty, who's lying in my lap.
It's unnerving to try to figure out more than I'm doing via the blogging. In fact, my blog is far more than I ever did pre-blog to express my voice broadly. I started talking to one of my friends about the concept of the Action Plan and got the sense that committing further to my blog might not qualify as an OK Plan. It seemed that I needed to be paid for my writing, or at least published by someone else, rather than myself (via the blog).
What Would I Wish to Have Published?
That's the problem: I don't feel drawn to write anything that's commercially appealing. At dinner with a friend the other night, he said, "There's definitely a market for memoirs, but they have to be ironic, like David Sedaris' or Augusten Burrough's, and you probably don't want to write like that."
~Giant sneeze and Phoebe, the kitty, claws through my sweatpants as she springs off my lap in fear.~
In 2000, I completed a 180-page, coming-of-age memoir, but have had no desire to continue revising and editing it to make it commercially viable. The blog appeals to me so much because the only sort of writing that interests me in my free-time features my reflections on what I hear and see and experience around me.
If someone were willing to publish the best of my blog entries as a book, that would be wonderful. I just want the writing to be pure pleasure, and not laborious. Chutpah, I know.
Phoebe is back.
To Recover My Creativity
I want to write about the Cat Show at Madison Square Garden or the Economy or "Saturday Night Live," but I'm feeling too self-conscious.
Today, I decided to give myself the gift of focusing exclusively on my writing, rather than cramming it in around everything else I'm doing. That's turning out to be self-consciousness-producing.
Too bad. It's important to express myself, even if I'm listening too hard to each syllable as my fingertips slowly press it out.
Healthy Pressure
The artists support group I go to on Monday nights has agreed to devote on Monday a month to an Action Plan meeting.
That Monday is tomorrow night. Oy! The Plan will require each of us to declare and commit to what we'll do in a particular period of time to further our art. What I'd rather do today and forever is focus on petting the purring kitty, who's lying in my lap.
It's unnerving to try to figure out more than I'm doing via the blogging. In fact, my blog is far more than I ever did pre-blog to express my voice broadly. I started talking to one of my friends about the concept of the Action Plan and got the sense that committing further to my blog might not qualify as an OK Plan. It seemed that I needed to be paid for my writing, or at least published by someone else, rather than myself (via the blog).
What Would I Wish to Have Published?
That's the problem: I don't feel drawn to write anything that's commercially appealing. At dinner with a friend the other night, he said, "There's definitely a market for memoirs, but they have to be ironic, like David Sedaris' or Augusten Burrough's, and you probably don't want to write like that."
~Giant sneeze and Phoebe, the kitty, claws through my sweatpants as she springs off my lap in fear.~
In 2000, I completed a 180-page, coming-of-age memoir, but have had no desire to continue revising and editing it to make it commercially viable. The blog appeals to me so much because the only sort of writing that interests me in my free-time features my reflections on what I hear and see and experience around me.
If someone were willing to publish the best of my blog entries as a book, that would be wonderful. I just want the writing to be pure pleasure, and not laborious. Chutpah, I know.
Phoebe is back.
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