I used to write things that made people cry. I used to write things that made people laugh. I used to write stories that were interesting to read. I used to write things that had some sort of impact on others when they read them, things that made them think and sometimes even understand… and they were all stories from my life. My best writing has always seemed to be observations and stories from my own life.
I had an idea, a couple of years ago, to write a book out of my journals. I keep meaning to work on it, but every time I start I look at what I’ve got and it scares me. I need to get my paper journals back from my mother. I have 4 years worth of online journals to go through, as well as 5 years of handwritten journals. I mean to do it, I want to do it, but I don’t have the energy to do it after working during the day, and by the time the weekend comes I don’t remember it exists. It’s a project in the back of my mind, worthwhile if only for my own memories of who I’ve been, and how I’ve changed. And trust me, I’ve changed a hell of a lot in the past five years.
I remembered this tonight, as I was reading For better or for Worse books… the stories that I’ve always felt closest to were the ones about people. I cried when Farley died. I still cry when I think about it. They were like realy people to me, and you can tell reading about them that they’re all based very strongly in reality. Part of my writing style has to have come from this. That which is the most real means the most to me.