Since I have been blogging for a few months now, I have made some observations about the whole thing, but last night was a big revelation to me.
I have been nagging myself about writing in my journal so that I can write a little more freely about things that are on my mind without the worry of rambling in front of an audience. I sometimes need to ramble to get all those thoughts out. But for some reason, I had little motivation to write much by hand.
I spent the night at my house last night, in the room I grew up in. As soon as I walked in my room, I picked up a pen and my journal (which takes up space in my purse, because I take it everywhere, but hardly use it for its intended purpose), and started writing. And it felt great to get whatever was inside out. I don’t really blog when I’m at home. I usually do that on the couch in our apartment. Different environments inspire me to emote differently.
I’m not saying I’m a tortured artist or anything like that. But it seems when I’m at home, I suddenly have a lot to write to myself that I don’t feel comfortable sharing with the world. And in E’s apartment, I feel totally comfortable blogging because it feels like you’re here in my space for a book club, or a wedding related conversation. I guess that’s how I feel. But location sets the tone for me as a writer. I also like to frequent the coffee shops if I’m at home and want to blog (no wi-fi at my house). It’s interesting to me that that happens.
Where do you like to write or sing or paint or read?