I have never been one to keep a journal or diary or anything like that, at least not for an extended period of time, but for a couple months during my junior year of high school, I recorded a dozen or so entries. These are three of them.
3/1/02 9:00pm
I'm feeling a little down--not uncommon. I think it's due to the lack of writing, a result of the burden called a term paper. It's on Mark Twain. Because I've never read an entire Twain work, I'm trying to read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.1 But since I'm always reading about four books at once, I'm trying to complete Vonnegut's Galapagos, and today I purchased and began The Nick Adams Stories.
But that term paper's bringing me down. Well, I'll worry about that tomorrow.
I'll worry about school later.
So, basically, I want to write something, but I'm not quite in the mood. I think I'd rather read or watch TV.
I've been trying to drink more water.
3/3/02
Yesterday, (last night) I wrote "Another Bloody Mess,"2 and its chapter 39 in Harold3. I've set a goal of 55 chapters (and to think I originally wanted 99). I feel that if I go to for the "stories" will become redundant. Maybe they already are? I don't know.
About 1am:
Well, for the last two hours I've read The Nick Adams Stories by Hemingway. It's probably to longest strech of uninterupted reading I've experiences since reading Crichton's Rising Sun. (I finished the book and looked at the clock and it was 3:30am. I hadn't looked at the clock in four hours. I was amazed.) Again I'm amazed because I hadn't looked at the clock for the last two hours. I'm always looked at the clock when there's one around. That's why I like to golf on an empty course. Just me and nature. No need to worry about time.
Anyway, there's something about Hemingway that amazed me. I'm sure I'm not the first to realize it, but I can't explain it. I really don't want to stop reading. I suppose Cat's Cradle did it to me and those Harry Potter books (I swear they have a deeper5 meaning). I have a feeling I'll turn into a Hemingway nut in the next two or three months, replacing Vonnegut who replaced Crichton.
3/14/02
Golf is draining me. I'm frustrated. I can't write. And then there's the whole term paper thing I've been procrastinating. Schools kills me. I want to learn, but the pressure I feel on my heart makes me want to give it all up. But I keep telling myself that since I've gone this far, I should be able to last a little longer. (That was accidental alliteration.)
I'm tired. I need sleep.
Putting ice in water makes it more bearable.
I've been getting musical urges recently, but with the whole golf thing, which I love, and the term paper pressure, I doubt I be able to live out the musical inspirations. [Friend's name] would probably be my first option. We have similar musical interests. [A different friend's name] would be second. He knows a lot about the actual ways music is played/written/performed, etc.
And one last edition: I hate this journal--I hate my voice--It's god awful.
1 It's actually just Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. There's no "the." And I didn't actually read the whole thing until college.
2 I would love to find this in one of these notebooks. Stay tuned.
3 The World of Harold and His Lovely Wife. My first attempt at writing a novel. It had nothing to do with Harold nor his lovely wife, and they never appeared or were even mentioned in the novel. In fact, the only real elements linking the "novel" were the protagonist who never saves the day (The Chipmunk Warrior), the infinite gang of "bad guys" (The Refrigerator Tunics nee Jalapeno Marauders), and the various narrators who would get killed.4
4 I was on a lot of drugs in high school.
5 Penetration.
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