Because this is the first post of my first official blog I find that I do not know necessarily how to begin. The same thing happens to me each time I start a journal, a poem, an essay or any other project of any sort. I sit, pen in hand, poised to begin the greatest writing peice of all time, just to end up staring at the page. I cannot begin. I cannot put ink upon the paper, strike any thought down no matter how unoriginal, sad, angry, or cheery. I cannot even doodle. I am simply rendered incapable. The blank, emptiness of it all stares back, mocking my pen and I. My thoughts go into overdrive and then sputter to a standstill as they are frozen with the mere possibility or impossibility of it all. Of course don't ask me which as I can barely recall any thought process during those times. It's almost as though martinis have been shot directly into my bloodstream and I black, or, more appropriately blank out during those sessions.
It's not that I am unsure of myself or of my projects. Ask anyone that knows me, confidence is my middle name and if I do think that I cannot do something I end up researching the beast to death in order to figure out if my skills can conquor it, then often try it so as to claim yet another victory (I rule out overly fun items such as sky diving and bungee jumping as I like to keep all my body parts with m at all times and also, I do not like to pee my pants - been there, not what I call comfortable). So, when I set out on these project you can be sure that I know I can do it and I know what the creation will eventually be. I mean, I am sure of the middle and possibly the end, though that is really almost as uncertain as the beginning, yet I am unable to even pretend to know what the beginning is or how to begin the beginning. Maybe this is because I feel as though I am always in the midst of it all. I cannot find where any of my stories began and I am nowhere near the end of any of them. They are all tied together, linked by characters, places, and sometimes events that host the smaller events or vice versa.
When I think about it, in my little universe all events, all stories, are somehow tied together and the possibility of finding the beginning, never mind the end, can only be measured according to one's ability to untangle the strings of stories. And maybe the people that are the real story tellers, the real writers, are those that see the trees seperate from the forest, the skirting of the field, the drawing of the thunderstorm, the rising of the sun as individual events, without even trying. The full grown fir does not distract them from following the story of the baby fern at it's base. They can tell you that this is the way it began and this is the way it ends. That's fine. In fact, that's downright dandy. For them. As for for me, I'm the middle girl, always looking around in wonder at all the stories that never seem to begin or end, just one very long story in and of itself. Trying to capture as much of the story as I can. And, although it can be a little overwhelming to be in the middle all the time, I kinda like it. And I hope you do, too. I hope you totally dig it.