Recently, scrap-booking, post-it notes, arts and crafts, written letters, and making notes in the margins of one’s own books, have become novelties.
When I have time on my hands, something within me, perhaps the “kid” that lurks somewhere along my center of mass, propels me to go to my ‘stationery closet’ at home and make a collage or a mural or sorts, to put on my wall or admire as a boho-chic artifact for keepsakes’ purposes.
Inevitably, whatever I make I always throw in the garbage and regret having made it in the first place. What a waste of time and stupidity on my part.
Thus far I have been successful in my resistance of making such products of the creative lobe of my brain and as a result, less paper has been disposed of by my non-bio-friendly self.
That is to say, those journals and scrapbooks that go on sale in Barnes and Noble have now successfully been made equivalent to jumbo size packs of chocolate at wholesale stores such as Costco.
Just because you get more for less, or can buy a leather bound hand-made book of blank ruled pages for 80% less than its original price, does not justify the need for one to purchase an unhealthy amount of chocolate, or an unused beautifully-crafted and bound blank canvas that exists only to house the rapidly disappearing discipline of penmanship.
Take the risk and buy the small amount of chocolates at the supermarket and not the warehouse-turned store; believe you me, you will not regret your non-flabby reflection in the mirror.
My immediate family is preparing to move out of our current home and yesterday I had met the builder my parents have been working with while I was away at college.
The builder was discussing another house he had just constructed and how it had cost the home-owner hundreds of thousands of dollars more than any other house he had ever made.
Could it have been because this guy, single and without dependents, wanted a mansion?
Apparently the man did have dependents: More than seventy thousand of them… books that is.
According to my dad, this home-owner is “married to his books”.
The man, a future neighborhood cronie of ours, is a writer and of old age. He had his entire house made into a library solely for his dwelling. The constructor was instructed to build bookshelves along the walls from the basement up.
I was in awe and suddenly my desires to write, as opposed to type, and to write in-depth on a single subject, emerged.
The written word does not have to be frivolous. Pages do not have to be ripped out if the handwriting seems inconsistent and writing that was mulled over within the mind before placed on paper should not cause you to blush out of embarrassment when you read it to yourself after writing it.
Whenever I used to keep written prose or even poetry only to be read by myself at some later time, an undeniable feverish wave would travel from my toes and crest at my facial muscles.
My elbows would remain at my sides but my lower arms would be provoked to tear out the page(s) and dispose of the “entries” similar to entries I would make in truly frivolous diaries as a small girl: perhaps noting how handsome a crush I had, looked one day.
To prevent uncalled for ripping out of pages of writing, (with the exception of those diaries I had kept while in grade school which were absolutely called for), I had decided to publish my writings online in the genre of blog or xanga, which I refer to in Post II.
Honestly, I cannot bear to write that which will not be read by anyone but myself.
I think this characteristic of mine stems from the same source that makes me not bear to be alone, (refer to Post LII).
However, we’re all taught in English, or any writing-associated course, that our readers must be “hooked”. Our readers must be spoken to. They must have a reason to read what you have written.
I have a strong desire to document my oddball path to medical school to showcase a truth and because not even the Ivy League academic advisers have any idea about the non-linear path I am taking.
In documenting my path, from organic chemistry lab to cell biology, to MCAT, to applications, for the next two to three years of my life, I will be:
1. Reassuring myself about the path that I am making for myself;
2. Encouraging myself to continue on the path;
3. and in turn, writing for not only myself but for peers who were “weeded out” of the medical school running despite every fiber of their being reverberating to be an eternal disciple of humanity.
Manuscripts, writing by hand, do not have to be individual pieces of paper thrown together.
Manuscripts do not have to be prize-winning, research-driven, and heavily footnoted volumes.
Manuscripts do not have to be your run of the mill diary or journal.
My manuscript is now a small, compact bound set of ruled paper, not too artificially thick and not nearly as thin as loose-leaf paper, with a bright orange front and back cover and spine that I will carry with me everyday beginning the first day of my post-baccalaureate studies.
My manuscript is what I like to call my Catalog of Thoughts.
Here’s to self-imposed
extra homework documenting for the people -