Blahgging

Tonight I found myself sitting in front of the laptop, mindlessly web surfing, either too tired or too listless to work on something productive. It was then that I thought to myself, "Hey, maybe I should blog." So here I am.

It's hard to say exactly what has led me to abandon my online writing. Unfortunately, I can't claim it's because any private writing has taken its place. I suppose it's nothing complicated, just the fact that I haven't set aside any time for it and that I've struggled with a lack of direction in these posts. On the surface, a blog sounds simple. After all, it follows that most basic of writing aphorisms, "write what you know". And what could you possibly know better than... yourself?

It's evident the memoir has taken on a significant role in our web-savvy, pop-culture obsessed, fifteen-minutes-of-fame culture. Does putting it in writing prove that it happened? Does it lend a significance to everyday events that we find otherwise lacking? Is talking up our latest foray the latest way of keeping up with the Joneses? Or maybe, for most of us, it's just a way to keep friends loosely informed and make use of the internet as a creative outlet.

It's really creativity I crave. But all too often I find my mind devoid of any ideas for creative pursuits, and I wonder if the internet takes some of that blame. Or perhaps I'm just getting older and more set in my ways. One thing I do know: since my Lenten break with visual/electronic media, I've been loathe to watch any TV shows or movies more than once or twice a week, and surfing the web has become primarily a tool for procrastination when I lack the motivation for real action (or am simply trying to avoid what I know needs to be done). Writing this is no exception to this rule.

So perhaps I'll write again soon, with fresh ideas percolating. Or perhaps I'll move on to other things, but then, who knows? Maybe moving on to other things would finally give me something to blog about.

Irresolute Resolutions

I have been pondering the history of New Year's resolutions. When did such a tradition begin? I can't imagine anyone, neither peasants nor nobility, deciding that they need to lose that extra weight they put on at the Christmas feast. While I'm sure that New Year celebrations have always centered around hopes for a bountiful time to come, when did we first endeavor to use the holiday as a catalyst towards self improvement?

Not that it isn't logical; the hope for a brighter future should only naturally make us think of our own role in it. Finally, this will be the year we get it together, the year we actually get into shape, stick to our budget, clean out the garage. Out with the old habits, in with the new, improved ones. And especially after a year that saw many people's hopes and dreams crumble under unexpected losses, we all yearn for something better, be it a new job after losing the old one, a new sense of security in times of uncertainty, or a new president. And so much feels beyond our control - there must be something we can strive towards, some way we ourselves can make a difference.

Lately, I find myself thinking more often about what I want from my life. Perhaps this comes with the territory of now being firmly rooted in my thirties; it's as if I'm grasping at the final moments of young adulthood, ready for something new, but uncertain what that may be. All I really know is, I want a life less ordinary. I don't want to work nine-to-five forever, but what are my options? What do I really want to be now that I am, supposedly, grown up?

I mull over various resolutions, but am not satisfied. Write a book - three pages each week? Well, I'm not sure if I'm ready to jump into that just yet. Go back to my comic strip? Make a bigger volunteer commitment again? Maybe even write those Christmas cards I still haven't gotten around to?

Perhaps I'm going about it the wrong way. Maybe it's not so much about setting a weekly goal as it is to just take each day as it comes and be open to new opportunities, aware of what's happening outside of my little shell of a world. Maybe, if I'm patient, the means to crack that shell will present itself, or perhaps I'll find the sliver where the light is already piercing through.

So at this time I'm not setting any resolutions. I don't know what the future holds, but that doesn't worry me in the least. Hey, I guess I do have one resolution after all - I hearby resolve not to worry about what comes next. Not a bad motto for the coming year, really. Let's see if it sticks.

On Writing

Last night I was up until 1am writing the museum review below. I can't remember the last time I stayed up so late feverishly writing away for the sheer pleasure of it and not because I had a term paper due the next morning. It's not as though I even knew what I was going to say beyond my opening paragraph when I began, but somehow the ideas kept coming and by the time I was done I was on such an adrenaline rush that I might as well have downed three Turkish coffees.

I feel that I have rediscovered a lost love - the love of writing.

As I young child I felt compelled to write down stories, usually first chapters of what I was sure would someday become some of my many wildly successful novels. In seventh grade I remember being given the privilege of opting out of our regular English studies for the opportunity to create a collection of fantasy short stories and then a complete children's book. Looking back, I can't say that I find any of these stories to be particularly well crafted; I had a habit of starting off strong and then petering out because I hadn't mapped out a logical conclusion.

Still, I wrote. On into college I wrote, although by that time the tedium of producing essays and articles to fit someone else's choice of topics had started to take its toll, and I was no longer writing for the simple joy of it. In my journalism classes I struggled to mold my style to fit the requirements of writing a news story. But I will never forget the time when, with my graduation close at hand, one of my professors, who happened to be the head of the print journalism division at PLU, asked what I planned to do at this point.

"I'm not sure," I admitted.

"Well, whatever you do, you should write," he told me. "You need to write."

Do I need to write? And if so, is it for my own benefit, because I need this outlet, because this is how I can best bring into focus the world around me? Part of my excitement last night stemmed from the fact that in writing about the exhibit I opened my own eyes to ideas I hadn't even previously considered. I won't claim my writing was anything spectacular or original, or that it would have much meaning to anyone else, but I felt as though I had found the key to an unexpected treasure. Much like how an Impressionist painting can cause you to look at a simple still life in a totally new way, so the act of writing brought forth new connections and observations that I wouldn't have otherwise made.

I'm not sure where writing this blog will lead me. Maybe it will eventually be nothing more than a dusty cyber artifact of a brief period of my life. Who knows? For now I am content with the fact that I am writing again, writing for no other reason than the newly rediscovered desire simply to write.

The Rutabaga Starts Here

So, after mulling the idea over for, oh, maybe a year or two, probably more, I have decided to start my own blog. I'm not yet sure of the real purpose of this blog, or who might read it, but I suspect the two main reasons in the back of my mind are: 1. To write more - or to write at all, really, since I can't remember the last time I really sat down and wrote anything more complex than a shopping list 2. To track some of my comings and goings - who knows, maybe if I want something to write about, I'll have to get out more often!

Now seemed as good a time as any to start. I'm starting a three day holiday weekend with very little planned other than volunteering for a couple of hours at the young adult homeless shelter tonight and (hopefully) getting some things sorted out and organized around the house. Might as well take advantage of all this time! Especially since Michael works all weekend.

In case you are wondering about the title of my blog, some who know may recognize Rutabaga as an old nickname given to me by a dear friend when we were both in high school. She also, not coincidentally, later gave me a tiny copy of Carl Sandberg's Rootabaga Stories as a gift (a charming children's book - you should read it if you get the chance). I never even considered what to name my blog until tonight, but suddenly the name "Rutabaga Stories" popped into mind just as soon as I was asked to title this blog. Must be meant to be, huh?

P.S. About the elephant on this page: I love to travel and I love elephants. I haven't seen any live elephants on recent travels, but I did spot this cute bronze one outside Vienna's Natural History Museum this past May. I figure he's a sign of good things to come.