Ian Anderson 6 p.m., July 29
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I've always been a writer. As a child I excelled in reading, and was atrocious at numbers and math. My writing never won many A's in school, but I always kept a journal, wrote poetry, lyrics and even started writing a short story when I was in elementary school. My problems with writing are when someone reads it. I'm hoping to overcome this by exposing myself in this blog. I have to begin to let go what other people think of me or my writing. Blogs are unpolished, a first draft of sorts, unless you are the sort of blogger who edits and re-writes. I don't have the time for this...or the desire really. I'm just regurgitating my thoughts, more of a public journal. My mother read my only attempt at a short story and urged me to finish it. She was excited. I was horrified. I never finished that story. I couldn't deal with the fact she read it without my permission. I was so scared of being judged that I froze, and promised myself from then I would never attempt such a feat. Truth is, I had no problem starting the story, but I couldn't find an ending. It scared me. Looking back - I was just a little kid! What did I know about storytelling or writing! I've was hard on myself as a child, and that continues to haunt me today in my adult life. I like writing in a journal. When I'm upset, the first thing I used to do was get my journal and start writing. Even if it was fk fk fk fk f**k all over the pages. Stream of conscious writing. It felt good. It was a release. Everything I thought poured onto the pages of white narrow lined notebook paper. My then boyfriend (now ex-boyfriend) decided to read my journal. And then berate me for the things I wrote about him and our relationship in it. Wow. It changed me. I wrote in my journal less and less. I started "editing" my own journal for it's content! Just in case it was read. I still cringe when I have to sing lyrics I've written for the first time for my band mates. I have so much I've written, but little I've shared. I feel exposed and raw. I am continuing to find my space as a person who likes to write. It calms me, it helps me sort out the millions of things floating around in my mind at any given moment. Lately I enjoy writing reviews for Yelp. I have a many hobbies and I want to share them with the online world. Part of me is just a little kid, burying treasure in my yard, in the hopes that someone 20 years later will dig it up and think, hmmm, why is that here, who left it so intentionally and what does it mean? Or maybe I just want to be understood. I'm not sure myself.