The first two writing exercises for this class were quite difficult for me to produce. The subject matter was definitely interesting enough- a local scandal and a person I admire both allowed for more than enough things to say. I kept putting off the admiration piece until what felt like the last possible moment, but was fairly satisfied with the draft I submitted. I looked into what I wanted to write about for the blog about Eric Tillman and made an outline on Friday, and then spent Saturday morning and afternoon listlessly refreshing Facebook, taking a break to run out to the store on an unnecessary errand, and catching up on some episodes of Madmen. I wanted to get it done early in the afternoon so I'd have time for other homework, but that didn't happen. It finally took my friend dragging me to a coffee shop, taking away my cell phone, and actively telling me to focus every time my mind wandered off. After 3 hours, I had my piece written.
I enjoy writing, I find it very therapeutic when I'm upset and need to work things through or to describe an utterly fantastic day. I even like crafting sentences together for academic essays. I've kept an online journal since I was 15, and I've used it to vent and talk about anything imaginable. For many years, I wrote a few times a week. The amount of entries has always varied, but there was always that consistency. So far in 2010, I have only written 4 entries, and there has been no other outlet for my writing. My lifestyle changed drastically in January when I began a study abroad program in Cortona, Italy. I had visions of journalling as often as possible to remember every moment, but after the first week that quickly died and instead I decided to memorialize my adventures using photographs of everything I did. With every three day weekend, I went to a new Italian town and snapped shots of my friends, myself and our amazing surroundings. As Cortona wound down and my backpacking adventures began (9 countries in 46 days), the need and desire to snap pictures as much as possible wore off. After 3 months of taking the same picture on 8 different cameras so everyone in the group could have one or taking pictures of national monuments that 100 other tourists take every minute, my photographic endeavour was in serious need of a break. It got so bad that my friend and I were standing under the Eiffel Tower near the end of our travels and we looked at each other and asked "Do you want to take it or should I?" We had seen so much in so little time that while we still loved each European moment we were given, we took pictures because it's what people were supposed to do, and we would probably appreciate them later.. not because we really wanted to at the time.
Out of my 46 day whirlwind trip, the sole day I did journal was my last day in Paris when I was alone, and I walked around the city for the whole day, and attempted to write up the chronicles of my European journey in the form of a letter to my best friend. I wrote for hours, and only made it to country number 6. I believe it was that day that I really fell in love with Paris. I liked Vienna and Prague, and I was glad I got to see Brussels and Berlin, but I loved Paris. By the late afternoon, my hand was aching and I just didn't want to write anymore. I began to walk and stumbled upon a park in the northern part of the city. I'm sure if I went back to this park it I would lose some of it's magic, but that day, I was surrounded by Paris and became Parisian. As I walked from one side of the park to another, I saw children playing a game of soccer, old men chatting on park benches with baguettes beside them, and lovers lying on the grass in each others arms. The trees were large and green and the fountains were murmuring quietly. I sat down near the far end of the park and thought of taking out my camera or writing down what I was seeing, but I felt like there was no way that I could possibly capture how perfect this moment was. Serenity washed over me in waves as I sat there, thinking that life could not be more beautiful. Even though I was by myself, I felt as if the city had come to life, or maybe it always was. I felt like Paris was sharing a secret with me, and even though I was by myself, I wasn't alone.
When I returned to Canada a few weeks later, I spent a grand total of 72 hours praising the comforts of my own shower, my own bed, and my friends and family before I was ready to go back. It felt like I had left my heart back across the ocean. However, old routines came back as my summer began and I started working a few days after I landed in Edmonton. The summer was enjoyable enough, but at every turn I saw Europe. When I went for a jog at my regular loop around the human-made Beaumaris Lake was nothing compared to running on the banks of the Tevere in Rome. The walking distance and ease of public transportation everywhere in Europe made me resent my north side home and Edmonton's urban sprawl even more. My family started discussing the fascinating history of St. Albert one day after supper, but all I could think of was that I had been living in a building in Italy that was built before Canada was even discovered.
Sparse writing over the majority of the past 8 months is probably a combination of living in the moment without having time to look back, laziness, a lack of inspiration, and a wee bit of depression from readjusting to life at home. I am glad I have this course in my schedule, because instead of only being forced to write academic essays, I will hopefully find an end to the dry spell that I have been under and write more freely. My goal is to find less force and more self propelled interest. With 8 months left, I'm reasonably confident I'll succeed.
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