At the time of this writing, I have so far attempted to blog 3 or 4 times. With each endeavour, I would hit a juncture, or rather an impasse, where I find myself incapable of writing anything remotely coherent. In fact, I’m having one right now, admittedly the figurative wall of bricks isn’t as brobdingnagian as usual. Quite penetrable in fact, more your neighbour’s fence than the Gaza wall. But I’m digressing to borderline non sequitur there, what I meant to say is I know why I can’t write – I’m incredibly impersonal when it comes to telling stories of my life. I know, an eponymous contradiction there seeing as how my blog title is a play on the word raconteur.
All this time I led myself to believe that I can’t write objectively (think journalistic articles), but my short stint at Juice is quite illuminating in hindsight. While I don’t particularly enjoy having to write objective reviews – which is a self-defeating phrasal of two words in itself – I did the job quite well. So were the reports, ad editorials, newsbits and what-have-you. It helped that the magazine gives leeway to the style of language you’re allowed to use, hence you can afford to be creative (really euphemism for my-grammar-is-out-of-place-so-imma-use-colloquial-language-as-an-excuse, whoa hyphens).
What I do have problem with is descriptive narrative, you know, prose that goes:
She feels the contour of my head as it rest on her warm, Freudianly maternal
lap. Studying every protuberance with her light fingertips, as if phrenology is
no longer a lost science but the art of lovemaking.
That kind of crap. Except better.
Consequently, this little imperfection in my writing skills results in my being distant. But it’s not even just textual, my verbal communication skills are just as bad. And I think it relates.
Maybe my mind moves faster than my mouth, maybe I hit my head on the way out of my mother’s womb, maybe I have mild autism. I don’t know, I just can’t construct a proper sentence. It’s not so much a mental block, it’s a complete disability. I used to tell people I stammer but it’s not even that, I could be eloquent at one time but then certain words would just cease to exist at another. Or sometimes I’d just lose track of what I’m saying, like I still know what I wanted to say but I can’t put the apropos words together because I can’t connect them. I noticed that it's especially true when I'm trying to articulate my emotions or stuff related to them.
On some subconscious level, all these words lost in some mental pocket dimension are just gone to me, even in writing. When I do succeed at articulating some manner of thought, it doesn't feel genuine. Take this post for example, I'm not sure if this is really me. It feels like I'm improvising a feeling rather than writing a reflection of myself, like I'm constructing a persona. Maybe that's why I can't write about myself; the author is creating himself.
Oh look, I believe I've just created the very first metablog.
