I love to write. It is everything to me. It is like breathing. I write every day. And when I’m not writing, I’m thinking about writing. A line comes to mind and all of a sudden I find myself in a panic, scrambling to grab the closest pen and paper, itching to get the idea out in tangible form before the words are lost forever. I cringe at the thought of all the lost lines and ideas I’ve had over the years. They must’ve been really good for me to miss them this bad.
But being a writer is almost a curse. A neurotic curse that sounds romantic and edgy but in actuality, isn’t as glamorous as some would like to believe. Half the time I come off as crazy. So for me, this is what being a writer is like. I wish it was waking up at 9 AM, make a nice cup of coffee, and enjoy the morning light as a type away into literary bliss but it’s not.
I love writing, but it’s not that at all.
A lot of this is my own experience so I don’t speak for all writers when I confess the following…
First. It’s hard for me to articulate and express myself in person. I use writing as an excuse to explain myself. If I can’t get out what I want to say in person, then I’ll do it passively via the written word. That’s a horrible way to go about life and because of this, I’ve watched so many opportunities pass me by. Whether those opportunities be in the form of potential romance, career chances, or the chance to speak out in the name of justice, I’ve missed them all I still kick myself for it. I lay in bed, haunted by all the times I said nothing when I should’ve said something. That right there is half the reason I write.
Second. People think they know me but they don’t. They think that because I write about things I would never discuss in person, then they all of a sudden know the real, deep, inner you or some shit. No. You don’t know me. To be honest, I don’t even know me. Do any of us really know ourselves? I surprise myself every day. For example, last Friday, I chose watermelon over ice-cream. Who the fuck? Sometimes when I read something I’ve written in the past, I’m amazed that it came from me! In every moment of life, we are a different person. I’m not the person I was a year ago, or a month ago, or a week ago, or even an hour ago. I’m always looking back and learning from the past. So, simply put, you don’t know me because if I can’t figure myself out, then you sure as shit can’t either.
Third. I can be deep without being depressed. Just because I write about death every once in a while doesn’t mean I’m fucking depressed. It just means that I want to die… I kid, I kid.
Fourth. I do admit, sometimes I write myself into sadness. Yes. Sometimes I get so into what I’m saying that I draw myself into a place that I hate. An introspective nook in my mind, where all I see is black and white. I hate it there. I don’t stay for too long. Sometimes when I’m there for too long, I wonder if I’ll ever get out (But that’s called being dramatic). So I have to be very careful. All writers have a place like this. Writers use words to manipulate the way readers feel but in order to manipulate emotions the emotions of others, we must first manipulate our own emotions.
Fifth. Most of my essays live only in that moment. Another reason why I write every day is that certain emotions and thoughts only live in that moment. The way I feel about someone one day will change the next and so I make sure I capture whatever those feelings are so that they live on forever. I wrote an essay in High School that I love but I would never be able to write it as well today because I just don’t feel the same.
Sixth. I have an obsession with writing about people that I mean nothing to. The people I write for don’t really give a shit about me (or at least that’s what I tell myself. I’m not sure). I’ve written essays about strangers I’ve met at parties, ex-crushes from years ago, I wrote an essay about some random guy I briefly made eye contact with (Then I spent the next month crying over it). Then I post those essays for the world to see. I do this because a part of me hopes that whoever I wrote that essay for will figure it out and read it. I post these things because it feels right. Writers are always writing songs and poems for their lovers so I do the same thing. It’s obsessive but it’s how it goes. I write about people in a way that isn’t too obvious but so that they’ll figure it out. It’s weird.
Seventh. I’m overly judgmental of myself. If something is too gushy I accuse myself of being unoriginal and predictable. Everyone is gushy. If something is too deep I accuse myself of being unoriginal and predictable. Everyone is depressed these days. It’s “in.” If I’m too sarcastic, I accuse myself of not being deep enough. Writers are supposed to be deep and brooding. Our words should be riddled with subtext and allegories spanning across the human condition. Meanwhile here I am writing dumb shit like “What Kind’ve Bitch You Are Based on Your Zodiac.” Hemingway would be so unimpressed…
Eighth. To add on to the last one, I hate how colloquial my writing comes out sometimes. I feel like I’m using this conversational style to try to be deep and real when really I’m just being a lazy writer.
Ninth. I do this sad thing where if I write something that shows too much of my “inner demons” (the phrase inner demons is rather dark and overly dramatic) I will try to blanket it with nonsensical essays and articles that aren’t as heavy. Say I write something about a guy and I think there’s a chance he might see it, I bury it with other essays so he can’t find it unless he went digging for it. (Keep in mind, I always want them to find it, but then again I don’t want them to find it.)
Tenth. I won’t allow myself to write about certain people. I never write about people I truly despise or hate because I don’t want to give them the satisfaction. I don’t want them to sleep peacefully at night knowing that I obsessed over my hatred for them and spent too many hours writing about them. The people that I hate are narcissistic and vain and would revel in it too much.
Eleventh. I think I’m a writer because I’m narcissistic and vain and I hate myself for it but then again I still love myself the most (See how contradicting I am). Notice how I talk about hating narcissists whilst writing this entire essay about me. Most of my essays are about me. Writing is all about validation. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Correction. Art, in general, is all about validation. Artists do what they do for validation. It’s a fact. At its core, at the very center, art is all an attempt at validation.
Twelfth. A lot of people have told me that they enjoy what I have to say which only feeds into my narcissism.
Thirteenth. Moral of this essay, I’m way too into myself. SECRET: being overly honest and critical of yourself is a best seller. People eat that shit up. “Oh wow, this is so edgy and honest and real.” Surprise bitch, I recognize my humanity and write about it. We’re all pricks. I just make myself overly aware of this. I wear my asshole on my sleeve.
Fourteenth. I don’t actually think I’m original for being overly honest. I think I’m a copycat. I know someone must have figured it out a long ass time ago. I just write what I would read. I want sex, I want honesty, I want tomfoolery. I want me.
Fifteenth. Sometimes I use my title as an excuse to be a dick to people. Like I’m a tortured soul who sometimes takes it out on those closest to me. Just to let you know, if someone you love is an artist and is also treating you like shit, their art is never an excuse. Their “genius” is not an excuse to act like a dick. Myself included (mom).
Sixteenth. I understand people don’t really care that much about what I have to say. If they do care that much it’s because they’re nosey. A peeping tom to my inner monologue [demons].
Seventeenth. I worry that people won’t get what I’m saying because they’re not reading it the “right way.” In my head, a line might sound sarcastic but then someone will take it literally and I just look like an asshole.
Eighteenth. Twelve years of writing and I still don’t think I use these correctly [ ].
I tell myself underneath it all, this must all stand for some sort of deeper meaning. Hmm. It probably doesn’t. But then again all writers tell themselves what they write stands for nothing when in actuality they’re intentionally trying to make it stand for something then pass it off as “real.” Oh shit. My asshole is showing again. If I was a smoker I’d whip out a cigarette right about now but instead… I’ll drink to that.
**takes a sip of diet coke**