The sky is my favourite. It's that shade of blue, my favourite blue, the kind I remember staring up at from the pool in our backyard back home. The only time I ever really liked to swim was when I wasn't swimming at all.
~~
I have a confession: my life is a little boring. Very boring, actually, which really shouldn't be surprising, considering how much time I spend alone in my room. There are only so many adventures you can have in seclusion.
This is why I sometimes have trouble blogging, actually. When I have no advice to give, no unique contribution to make to what the other writing-themed blogs have already said, I find that my mundane life provides very little blogging material. It's easy, in theory, to talk about what's going on in your life. The reality of it can be true, as well...but that goes more for friendly chats and less for blogging on the internet.
My audience may be small, but I'm sure you don't want to hear me complain about my sister taking my clothes again.
That's why I never even considered writing creative nonfiction before. Or why I never thought that I'd even pen an autobiography, because my story is a short and repetitive one. It's not exciting, nor is it really inspiring. People won't really take anything away from it. Even my own personal and private journals / diaries have been this way for almost as long as I can remember:
"Dear Diary,
This happened, then that happened. I feel like this.
The End."
How did I even get into this whole writing business?
But the other day, I tried something different. On the way back from my vacation, while I was sitting on the plane, airborn for Winnipeg, I stared out the window. That small action in and of itself really wasn't new at all, but it was the things I was thinking about, and the way I was thinking about them, that motivated me to pull out my journal.
Normally, I'd write another mundane entry. Normally, I'd write the date, and say something along the lines of, "I like staring out the window and thinking about stuff." (No, really. That right there is practically a direct quote.) But this time, I stopped, and I opted for something different:
The wall of the plane is cold. I can lean against it more comfortably than in the train I was on earlier in the summer; back when the days were still growing and the imminent change that is now so close, didn't seem so imminent. But even though my seat is arranged in such a way that I could easily rest my head against the heavy structure and fall asleep, I shift carefully away from it. The cold is shocking to my skin--I can only imagine what it's like out there.
There's a reason I never enjoyed writing about my life, even in the private confines of my journal--it was boring. It was boring and dull and I'm sure that in twenty years I will not be interested in reading about the toys I got for Christmas when I was 11.
This, though...this was different. I had never written about my life this way before--not without changing some major detail, or falsifying my life in a way that would make things more interesting to the non-existent reader.
This was interesting. It was fun.
Maybe someday I'll share the full piece with you. But for now, I think I might write some more.
Until later,
- Justyne
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