I spend my entire week, in some way or another, writing: dissertation, seminar notes, to-do lists, emails, tweets, texts, entries into my moleskin, blogs. But what’s the point? Writing is something to do and my blog is somewhere to go. The internet is driven by so many blogs that the act of blogging contains a certain feeling of comradery, you know you’re not alone. Blogging is a social act and in the internet realm, it’s completely fine and normal to have one, contribute to one, or follow one (or a lot more, depending on how social your online identity is.)
When I feel lonely though, I’ll write in my moleskin. I’ll always refer to my moleskin as a moleskin, because I hate the word ‘diary.’ When we were younger, my next door neighbour and I created our own alphabet of images, something that was shared only between us and our diaries. It was an alphabet that our parents would never understand. My mom, understandably, wasn’t such a fan of my new alphabet. My diary was binned and then I was pretty much banned from writing anything personal that wasn’t a card or homework.
I still feel like diary writing is somewhat stigmatized. Maybe it hasn’t left me from childhood. It is perhaps one of the greater narcissistic acts of writing, completely private and self-indulgent. I spent some time writing in my moleskin earlier. Today has been one of those rarer days when I feel quiet, distant almost. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent most of the day writing my dissertation. I’ve been writing on and off in my moleskin since September 10th 2013. I’ve never bothered to look back through it, I’m saving that for September 10th 2014. Admittedly, I had a quick flick through it tonight.
I have a specific frame for my moleskin – only the date and a ‘now playing’ note at the beginning and at the end of the entry, nothing fancy. Unsurprisingly, it mainly consists of The Gaslight Anthem. I did, however, stumble across a song I have absolutely no recollection of listening to. Trojans by Atlas Genius. The title of this blog is a lyric from that song. The song itself is beautiful but I’ve spent my evening listening to their album and trust me; it’s not my cup of tea at all. Weird, huh? I don’t know how I found the song, I don’t know why I was listening it. It really doesn’t make much sense to me. I do, however, appreciate that I wrote the song down so I’ve been able to listen to it again.
I’m not really sure what my point is, which is absolutely fitting as I can’t answer my own question in regards to writing. I don’t know what the point is. Maybe there is no point. I really think it would be a marvellous thing if John Steinbeck got carried away before he went to bed and wrote just for the hell of it too.