As is evident from this blog, as much as I share, I hide a lot. I am the mistress of feigning openness and frankness whilst not actually telling people things.
Example:
Uni friend tweets- "essay deadlines.can't even".
My response- *retweet*
Friend messages- "Are you excited to start uni again?"
My response- "Yup! :)"
I don't think it's lying. I just feel like a lot of the time, people aren't able to empathise. Why tell them?
The truth is overrated most of the time. And sympathy is not enough for me. I don't want pity or people knowing I'm stressed or worried. This makes me more anxious. I am always slightly jealous when people are able to casually divulge their biggest worries and insecurities.
I have been thinking about this because I recently (15 minutes ago) re-read an old story I wrote. I started it when I was 11. It was a story I developed from an English homework piece. I was in year 5 or 6 then. For some reason, I could never let go of that story. I finished it five or six years later. I didn't write constantly all those years. It was sporadic.There was a time when I even shared it with people-with friends and family. I was nervous but I did it.
Looking back on it, I think it's interesting how that is the longest I have ever spent on writing something. Not only that, but I continued it across a time period in which I changed so drastically. I think I felt this sense of urgency with that story. It had to be completed.
Looking back on it, I feel a sense of embarrassment. I'm proud of finishing the story, but- it's a strange feeling. I realise how vulnerable I made myself in my writing. I doubt other people noticed, but me being me, I see how in my characters, I was writing about myself. I think that's why I couldn't not finish it. Reading certain parts of the story, certain conversations between my characters, I say to myself,"why?". I berate myself and the characters in the story, but I am not sure in which order I do this? Did the characters come first or did I?
Looking back on it, I don't agree at all with some of my sentiments in the story, but I think that is just me growing up and learning. The biggest thing I have learned is that I have never written that way before. Never so honestly. I never realised that I was writing about myself, so I don't think I hid anything.
And thus, I realise, that in hiding things, I will never be able to continue writing a story past 100 words.
I never thought honesty was something you had to work on, but I'm learning that it's a skill, like riding a bike or making a cup of tea. Trivial and commonplace, you think it's easy.
But it is so easy to do it wrong.
And when done wrong, you feel its absence.
Example:
Uni friend tweets- "essay deadlines.can't even".
My response- *retweet*
Friend messages- "Are you excited to start uni again?"
My response- "Yup! :)"
I don't think it's lying. I just feel like a lot of the time, people aren't able to empathise. Why tell them?
The truth is overrated most of the time. And sympathy is not enough for me. I don't want pity or people knowing I'm stressed or worried. This makes me more anxious. I am always slightly jealous when people are able to casually divulge their biggest worries and insecurities.
I have been thinking about this because I recently (15 minutes ago) re-read an old story I wrote. I started it when I was 11. It was a story I developed from an English homework piece. I was in year 5 or 6 then. For some reason, I could never let go of that story. I finished it five or six years later. I didn't write constantly all those years. It was sporadic.There was a time when I even shared it with people-with friends and family. I was nervous but I did it.
Looking back on it, I think it's interesting how that is the longest I have ever spent on writing something. Not only that, but I continued it across a time period in which I changed so drastically. I think I felt this sense of urgency with that story. It had to be completed.
Looking back on it, I feel a sense of embarrassment. I'm proud of finishing the story, but- it's a strange feeling. I realise how vulnerable I made myself in my writing. I doubt other people noticed, but me being me, I see how in my characters, I was writing about myself. I think that's why I couldn't not finish it. Reading certain parts of the story, certain conversations between my characters, I say to myself,"why?". I berate myself and the characters in the story, but I am not sure in which order I do this? Did the characters come first or did I?
Looking back on it, I don't agree at all with some of my sentiments in the story, but I think that is just me growing up and learning. The biggest thing I have learned is that I have never written that way before. Never so honestly. I never realised that I was writing about myself, so I don't think I hid anything.
And thus, I realise, that in hiding things, I will never be able to continue writing a story past 100 words.
I never thought honesty was something you had to work on, but I'm learning that it's a skill, like riding a bike or making a cup of tea. Trivial and commonplace, you think it's easy.
But it is so easy to do it wrong.
And when done wrong, you feel its absence.
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