I think I hold onto things I don’t need, like old toys and scraps of paper, because I keep waiting for that moment when I’ll be adult enough that I won’t care about those things anymore. As I’ve grown up though, I realize now that I’m never going to be that “adult.”
There were some things that I could get rid of, and it felt good to toss them. It’s like throwing out mental baggage and starting over new. When I look around at the lack of mess in my apartment, I do become a little heartened at the sight. It makes me feel like I have come a long way.
At the same time, I also realize that I won’t be able to get rid of everything. It’s a little embarrassing, but it’s also something that I’m willing to proudly accept. Yes, I managed to throw out some of the weird broken toy robots, but I kept the majority of them, especially the favorites that might be missing an arm or a leg from the great robot battles of ’86. And I now have a top shelf of the hall closet dedicated to my two containers of My Little Ponies. I know that some of them might be worth something if I were to put them up for sale, but I don’t want to risk that they’ll fall into the hands of a modder. (Which is actually pretty awesome, I just don’t want my little ponies to be ripped apart and re-sculpted into something from Aliens.)
I think one of the keys to life is realizing how far you’ve come, and at the same time accepting the place you’re in. It’s not always easy. Despite the fact that I’m aware of this and I want to accept myself, I’ll still always feel a little squeamish opening up the hall closet when guests are around. Which is silly. If I didn’t keep the awesome old toys I have, I wouldn’t have moments like this one where my real cat, Danger, checks out my crazy robotic cat, Petster. Plus, the truth is that the people who know me, the ones who I’d invite into my home, already know that I probably have toys in the same closet I keep my cleaning supplies. If anything, they’re the types of people who would join me on the floor and help me piece my robots back together.
I’m sort of all over the place with this post. Mostly, I wanted to share that cute video and admit that cleaning feels great, but so does holding on and remembering.
I’ve spent this Sunday cleaning. In an effort to de-clutter my house, I finally decided to tackle the pile of boxes I brought home from my parents’ house.
This is one awful pile. It contains relics of my childhood that I don’t know if I can part with. There’s a box of My Little Ponies, an apparently later version of PetSter (read that article- the writer is actually pretty funny), some horribly dismantled Transformers and knock off ‘Bots, and two large totes of writing.
Those two large totes are in addition to the two bookshelves filled with journals and sketch books, plus all the other paper floating around here. What’s that thing they say? Something about the first million words? Yeah, I’m sure I hit my first million words, technically, by eighth grade and another million words by the time I was in college. I should be a lot better than I am right now, but at the same time it is very clear exactly what I’m meant to do.
I’m meant to tell stories. It seems like that gets taken for granted. Like writing and telling stories is the exact same thing, and it isn’t always. There are lots of ways to tell stories, writing happens to be one of them. There are also plenty of writers who write well but can’t tell a good story. We all have our weaknesses.
And so I thought it would be interesting, especially after the last post about setting things on fire, to see some of the crazy things I’ve attempted. I’d love it if others would share some of their own crazy story attempts either in the comments or on blogs. If you have pictures, even better.
This is a page from my first writing binder. I think I was nine or ten when I started it, but I remember using it when I was 13 or 14 sitting on the grass in the backyard listening to the 10,000 Maniacs unplugged album. Of course this stuff was written in pencil. Up until 6th grade, I’d never written in pen before. (Grade school they always wanted us writing in pencil in case we made a mistake. Was every school like that?)
Side shot of the binder. What a mess. I found all sorts of weird things in there. Stickers, clipped articles, doodles, loose papers, home-made book marks. I am leaving this one as it is!
I decided at some point to write a “Choose Your Own Adventure” book. On the typewriter. Because we didn’t have a computer until I was in ninth grade. This page here is actually draft two! That means there was a draft one. There might even have been a rough draft written in pencil somewhere.
I got really into drawing and decided that I’d try and become a comic artist. I think this phase only lasted six months. There are only a few pages and no completed comics, so phew! It could have been worse. Much worse.
Just to show there is some hope and not everything I do is complete crap– a drawing I found in one of my much later sketch books. This was in college. I took an art appreciation class and learned about pastels for the first time ever.
What about you? Please share other crazy writing/art mis-adventures.