HA! I know that was corny. But, c'mon, can't you just imagine Carrie writing something like that? You laughed a little... on the inside? Anyway, I wrote my very first blog two years ago. I was following in the footsteps of Jimmy, my technologically advanced younger brother who chronicled his year abroad in Korea via Xanga. I could see what he was up to anytime, without needing to hassle him for an email or phone call. Our parents had to wait until they received emailed versions of Jimmy's life, which very much resembled his online stories, though I did notice - ahem - some editing. I, too, could and would be “with it” and super cool. I was excited to share my stories, ideas and opinions in a hip, new way. I was reminded of how I loved watching the end of Doogie Howser, when he typed his electronic journal at the end of every episode. I could finally be like Doogie!
I didn’t realize that my first blog entry would be my first, last and only blog entry. It would be my last for a very, very long time. I began to think of the ramifications of storing personal information over such a public space.
- What if I pick up a cyberspace stalker?
- What if I write about something stupid, and it’s discovered by my mom or my boss? (We all know that story about the lame guy who lost his job because of idiotic email bragging.)
- What if I want to run for president someday, and I am barred because of my improper use of an I.V.?
I couldn’t help but think this way. Law school trained me to think of all the worst what if's. Though paranoia and possible delusions of grandeur were some of the evil outcomes of my legal schooling, there was a something in me strong enough to break through the “think like a lawyer” brainwashing of Hastings.
My secret, my burning yearning is… I have always dreamed of being a writer. When I admired the aforementioned Carrie on “Sex and the City,” it wasn’t that I wanted to see myself trotting around the hippest spots of New York City in one of my hundred pairs of Manolo Blahniks. Really, I didn’t crave Carrie’s wardrobe or her fabulous city life; I was jealous of her column! When I was in elementary school, I entered a creative writing contest. My book, “The Homework Machine,” written and illustrated by my nine-year old self, made it past my school and all the way to the earn honors in the district. I felt artistic. I felt accomplished. A writer was born!
And then the writer’s parents eventually guilted her into going to law school, where all creative energies were squashed into nothingness. Oh, well.
This past weekend, I took a seminar, “Writing the Memoir,” at 826 Valencia. I have been volunteering at 826, founded by Dave Eggers, for about a year now. If you haven’t read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, you should. I love Dave Eggers, who moderated the workshop. Did I already mention his name twice? I love him only in a non-stalker, non-crazy, he doesn't need to get a restraining order kind of way, I swear!
Anyway, one big idea really hit me that night. That is: if I want to write, then I have to write. It’s so obvious, but I haven’t done anything with myself. I think I imagined that one day, I would ink the stories about my crazy family and my long-distance love and my very square feet, and – poof! – everyone would find me so very witty, hilarious and heartwarming and all those other adjectives used to describe clever writers, and that would be that.
Well, I realize it’s not actually that easy, and I don’t even know when I’ll attempt anything further with really getting out there, but I figured I could at least let my friends know what I’m up to. So to all my friends who are reading this, shoot me an email to let me know what you’re up to. Please. And thank you.
Oh alright, I feel I should admit one more thing… I actually do lust after Carrie’s Manolos.