This morning I did two things that I never thought I’d do again: clean my room and read through my old high school notebooks. I decided to clean because I wanted to shift my bed ninety degrees, and I decided to read through my notebooks because, well, I don’t know. But it has proved more entertaining than I could have ever imagined. It is absolutely no surprise that a vast majority of it is angry as hell at everything, but what did shock me was the volume of my teenangst writing. There are notebooks filled cover to cover. I don’t even do that now. I have also found a handful of beginnings of novels that I don’t remember writing at all. One in particular takes up a yellow legal pad, and the notes on the very first page express:
• I want something with conflict
• I want something extreme
• I want something like Kafka
• I want existencialism, out of ordinary, uncommon
Yes, I am aware that it is existentialism, but as you read this blog, just assume everything is followed by [sic]. It’s just better this way.
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