Possibly because it feels like each particle of talent has been ripped from my body, I've become obsessed with creative self-help books. They're very self-helpful.
"Yes. It's normal to think you're the suckiest thing on the planet, a withered waste of life. Embrace that! Feel the dehydrated spirit of your unique creativity guide you to fresher ground. The fertility of your creative essence is waiting to be tapped, but like a serpent shedding its skin, you must abandon what you've outgrown before wiggling comfortably in your new expression."
I'm popping this psychology like pills, bloating myself with metaphoric pats on the back. Hey, Ma! Look! I thought I was a girl, but I'm not. I'm like a snake...somehow...I'm shedding...something...and I'm so expressive now!
The best advice these books have given me is the instruction to keep journals. Hello. My name is Terami and I'm a journal-addict.
For one, I keep THIS journal, subjecting you to the banal thoughts of my day. I also keep a Lyric Journal, a My Life Is So Hard, Why Doesn't Anyone Love Me Journal, and a Visual Journal. All this, plus dozens of loose papers scribbled with notes, reminders, quotes, beautiful words, phone numbers, passwords, and appointments. I also keep a stupid amount of notes in my calendar...reminding myself of what I've DONE, as much as reminding myself of what I have yet to do. I'm a thought hound, a word magnet, a chaos junkie, and a neurotic scribbler.
They say when Edison died, he left behind almost 3,500 journals. He'd better watch out for me.
