I am currently stranded in Lima, Peru (with a keyboard on which I cannot figure out how to type an apostrophe, but can do as many ñs as I want), without access to my script - nor really any major desire to put a lot of time into it - so I figure this week, I would write about another type of writing I have been doing. Travel writing. More specifically, travel journal.
I do not know about you, but I have never really been on for keeping a journal. When I was a little kid, I had a Garfield-cover spiral notebook that was to be my "journal," but it served primarily as a doodle book. In high school, I attempted a Live Journal for a little bit, but my fifth and final post was a solicitation to all my friends to keep an eye out for my lost jacket. (It was in the back of my locker.) The only real journal keeping I have done since has been during my travels.
If you are a regular and long time reader of this (perhaps mildly interesting) blog, you might know that I get abroad roughly once a year. On those two to three week excursions, I bring along a little notebook, in which I try to record the events of each day. Photos do a lot, but so does whiskey, and my capacity for memory is not what it once was. Hence, the written records. Generally, even I find the entries to be a little on the dry side, static recordings of events with little anecdotes or personal reflection. This time, though, I tried something different.
If I am to be one hundred percent honest, I was not in the best of moods before flying out of NYC two weeks ago. The journal, while about my experinces in Lima and Cusco, also became a medium for my inner thoughts and emotions. I managed to put my feelings down on paper and, in a somewhat theraputic way, sort them out. Was the writing creative? I tried as best I could to be catchy or interesting. But it really was not about that. It was helpful to me. It was expressive in a different way than creating a world and characters and situations is. But it was writing nonetheless. And it felt good.
Moral of the story - writers write. And it does not always have to be stories. But, generally, it feels good when the words flow.
(Small post-Apocalytpic update while I have you; I got anothe remail from one of my producers. We are still out to a numbe of companies, but we are hoping to get a few responses after Labor Day. My agent is supposed to do a few follow up calls, and there are a few potentially interested producers and companies on our solicitation list. So, as I - hopefuly - make my way back to the States, I will keep my fingers crossed for some good news awaiting me as I enter back through customs.)
I do not know about you, but I have never really been on for keeping a journal. When I was a little kid, I had a Garfield-cover spiral notebook that was to be my "journal," but it served primarily as a doodle book. In high school, I attempted a Live Journal for a little bit, but my fifth and final post was a solicitation to all my friends to keep an eye out for my lost jacket. (It was in the back of my locker.) The only real journal keeping I have done since has been during my travels.
If you are a regular and long time reader of this (perhaps mildly interesting) blog, you might know that I get abroad roughly once a year. On those two to three week excursions, I bring along a little notebook, in which I try to record the events of each day. Photos do a lot, but so does whiskey, and my capacity for memory is not what it once was. Hence, the written records. Generally, even I find the entries to be a little on the dry side, static recordings of events with little anecdotes or personal reflection. This time, though, I tried something different.
If I am to be one hundred percent honest, I was not in the best of moods before flying out of NYC two weeks ago. The journal, while about my experinces in Lima and Cusco, also became a medium for my inner thoughts and emotions. I managed to put my feelings down on paper and, in a somewhat theraputic way, sort them out. Was the writing creative? I tried as best I could to be catchy or interesting. But it really was not about that. It was helpful to me. It was expressive in a different way than creating a world and characters and situations is. But it was writing nonetheless. And it felt good.
Moral of the story - writers write. And it does not always have to be stories. But, generally, it feels good when the words flow.
(Small post-Apocalytpic update while I have you; I got anothe remail from one of my producers. We are still out to a numbe of companies, but we are hoping to get a few responses after Labor Day. My agent is supposed to do a few follow up calls, and there are a few potentially interested producers and companies on our solicitation list. So, as I - hopefuly - make my way back to the States, I will keep my fingers crossed for some good news awaiting me as I enter back through customs.)
Hope all our East Coast readers survived Irene and the earthquake.