May day

So I went to a few capstone presentations today, for English Fest. This year's English Fest is not nearly as fun as last year's, despite the panel on Superheroes in Fiction, and I mostly attribute this to the lackluster theme: 'Interactive English.' The theme for last year was 'Comma Sutra,' which I adored. I would rather have English associated with sex than a damn computer anyday. The idea of 'interactive english' is a mite terrifying to me. It's sinister, like computers are going to take over everything us wordy-types adore. It's a little disappointing to know that hardly anybody reads anymore. I read all the time as a kid, it was my favorite thing. My idea of a good time was going to the library and picking out new things to read. If I every produce offspring(which will only happen by accident and if I miraculously change into the kind of person who'd be a decent mom), those little fuckers are going to read till they drop. But I digress.

Each presentation began with an essay about why they write. Each answer was witty, sincere and a little melancholy. I began to wonder: why do I write?

I'm an infrequent writer, I'll admit. I used to write everyday, but I've been in such a funk for a few months. Writing, as I see it, is like sex. It's sometimes great, more often than not mediocre, and once and a while god-awful. But, if you're not doing it, you spend all your time griping about not getting any. And the feeling you get when you read something amazing...like the first time I read Henry Miller, or when I first 'got' Shakespeare, just as memorable to me as my first kiss, or the first CD I bought.

So why do I write? There isn't a solid answer for that. Sometimes I just want to get away from everything, or there's this moment of pure emotion that I need to preserve. I'm so afraid of ever forgetting a single moment.