howcouldiknow

I have always written, privately.  I have notebook after notebook squirreled away in my room starting from eight or nine.  I was never really one for drawing but I liked words.  I still like words, hell I like books and libraries and authors and still words.  And yes, I am writing right now, but writing a conversational blog post does not count in my mind as a creative work.  So I continue writing and I continue showing no one, even those closest to me.  I have no idea how to disconnect myself and become an audience to my own work.  With photography I have a gut instinct that tells me, “this is crap” or “hell yes, you have a winner”.  I want to fix this,  maybe I can not think critically about my own writing because I do not try hard enough and have not figured out how to disconnect my emotions from it.  I am going to start delving into my archive of writing and trying to post it here.  Maybe no one cares and that is ok.  It is kind of more a therapeutic action than anything else.  Maybe I can dig up some of my poetry by nine year old Jessica (I was REALLY into rhyming, haha).  Here goes.

November of last year,  things were not going that well apparently.

November 11, 2008

The plants my mother gave me are dead.

I stopped watering them.

It’s unfair that they had to get caught in the middle.

There is a watermelon rotting in my kitchen cabinet.

I bought it to take to a party.

I put it in with my dishes.

I had my windows open all summer.

The wind would whip through and tear the blinds down.

Eventually I gave up and stopped hanging

them back up again.

My pillow looks like it belongs to a child.  It does.

It belongs to me seven years ago.

I guess I don’t know how to let go.

When I first moved here I went through a phase.

There was a time that I always slept fully clothed.

Recently my toaster began burning everything, I swear I didn’t turn the knob.

I started giving up on the little things.  That make life more pleasant.