I would love to have a really profound reason for writing a blog. I would love to tell you all that I have profound, intelligent, insightful insights that will draw you in and make you question everything you ever thought to be fact. The truth is, a series of events led me here: the floor of my mother’s living room at one in the morning, tapping out a few whimsical little words, and the product is secondary. I’m all about the process over here. I learned that in college: it’s all about the process.
So, I’m three weeks into a five-week vacation in my home country of America. Ordinarily, I lead a beautiful life in Germany, my second home country. There, I study development economics and work as a barista at a local Starbucks; I make art and I enjoy my relationships with the people around me; I struggle to keep up with the German bureaucracy and celebrate my American rebelliousness. I clash, all passion and fire to the German coolness and formality. I find exceptions to the rule and call them my friends.
Here, I just returned from a weekend trip to my old college town to see old friends and former professors, and it was a wonderful time. I fit right back into the fabric of that community as if I had never left, and rediscovered my confidence, which had taken a few hits since my plane landed in Washington. I would go into all the details of that happy little weekend, but I won’t. Those details are precious and mine, and not relevant to this thread anyway, which was originally about this writing process, and how I came to bring it here. During my trip, I visited my former writing professor – one of my favorites – and he gave me a copy of his latest book – a cheerful, yellow volume about how to teach writing as a professor of any subject. Not long into it, I got the urge to start writing again. His passion, as it did when I was his student, inspired me, and I just had to get some words out on paper somewhere about something. I needed not only to recapture my love of writing, I needed a new way to reduce my emotional tension.
So I grabbed my Superman notebook and my fancy German pen, and wrote a few, meandering sentences about my chipped nail polish, neat penmanship, and how my hand was already aching. I never learned how to hold a pen correctly as a child so I struggle with writing by hand; as much as I love to do it, it hurts, and I can never seem to keep it up for very long anymore.
I’m struggling with insomnia, too. Somehow – somehow – I’ve been manic for about two months. I’m absolutely surging with energy all day and then I can barely shut my eyes at night when it’s time to sleep. I can practically feel my skin crawl from restlessness.
So here I am: inspired to write, too sore to do so by hand, and excessively awake. I feel so unhealthy.