To begin, it is difficult for me to write… so I started a blog. The problem is, however, that I like to write, and I find tremendous pleasure in discharging inner thoughts and feelings onto the white (or beige, maybe sometimes pink) abyss. Words on paper are for me. I loose sight of that sometimes, and I will go through long breaks of not even wielding a pen or opening my computer. During these frequent spells of wordlessness, my brain seems to picture the thoughts and words that everyone else speaks. It feels like mine either can’t live up to that arbitrary standard or are just another set of words strung together to sound way more deep and thoughtful than I actually am. It actually will make me quite nauseated when I pen something that is trying to be overwhelmingly profound and I’ll get to the point where I literally and quite physically want to shout, “shut the fuck up!” (Profanity occasionally featured in this blog.)
I think it comes from a love a literature and the written word. My favorite authors are the ones who can effortlessly guide my emotions through an intricate web of plot, suspense, humor, melancholy and hope. Their work and their words are an extension of what I have neither the cleverness or caliper to say. They lay down new ideas and summon distant memories. Passion pours out and you can’t help but absorb every. single. word. “How could I ever write like that,” I’ll whisper to myself, “my words are not worth it.” These authors are my idols. These are the people that we want to be in our writing and whom we desire to mimic. Well, that’s your problem right there. We are in a sadistic quest to be someone else. Rather than writing for myself, I write to brown nose those who I look up to.
Another difficulty for me is how to shape what I want to say into letters, words and sentences. My thoughts are constant, high velocity ball bearings that, after firing from the epi-center, rattle around without end. When I finally have the courage and energy to expose myself to a blank sheet of paper, it will appear as nonsense and deletion worthy. Thus the cycle continues. Write, don’t write, back again. The fact that I have now vomited two paragraphs is relatively unheard of for me. Maybe I should stop while I am ahead.
That is not the point of this endeavor. I am not really sure that there is a point, but stopping is most definitely not that. Really, I am attempting to move past my comfort and into the realm of breaking cycles. There that word is again – cycle. My relationship with that word is complicated and somewhat overwhelming. Even as I write currently, I find myself in a few vin-diagrams of cycles that all interlace around one issue, me. Me, me, me, me, me. Now that I continue to write, it becomes even more selfish. Although with that in mind, when you are writing YOUR story down, it is so much about you.
So I urge you, if you are reading this and you are comfortable in your own skin, if you don’t mind talking about yourself and you are confident when you look in the mirror, then shut the screen or press the power button. Because as I write, I am putting down a story that is in an effort to be more like that, more confident and take more risks. However, if you are ever a little unsure about who you are or if you are worth anything, you might want to read on. Better yet, write on. Expose yourself and talk about you. Be free to being open with letting yourself get a little naked (naked is always good). Be selfish and talk about you. Guaranteed, even if someone doesn’t read it, you will feel better. You are worth the spotlight and you should be the one shining it. Of course I am not talking about exponential bragging or boasting or shoving it down someone’s throat. What I am saying is just be all like, “hey, this is who I am”. And if you think about it, you are not telling the world who you are. You will be telling YOU who you are. The world doesn’t actually need to know because each and every person is the center of their own universe. You are the most important thing in the world. If you feel that, people will know it. I truly believe that. Cheesy enough? Like my band teacher used to say, “just like velveeta”.
So whether or not the integrity of what I write is washed in selfishness, that is not why I am sitting under the covers with an over-heated and rather loud laptop, composing what can only be described as a wretched ballad of nonsense and crazy. I am doing this for me and no one else. If someone reads it then I hope that it is on your own volition and I can’t thank you enough for your attention, it truly means a lot. I have wasted quite a bit of my life editing myself down to what I think others want me to be. My goal is to not only explore the cycle(s), but to break it.
This is my story as well as stories about people and things that interest me. And, like most stories, it is constantly evolving. A story is not something that will find meaning by being unused and sans adaptation. Humans by definition are evolved creatures and the products that we create fall victim to similar change. This writing is very much an extension of myself, so as I change and adapt I hope that this little blog thing will do the same. I beg you to please just take it for what it is worth and with many grains of salt. This is by no means some prolific exploration of life, love or the pursuit of happiness. I am not trying to change lives or give advice (it’s more like I am trying to give advice to myself). I want to write with hope, kindness and forgiveness so that I can expose myself to a more pleasant state of being. I am writing because I just want to say what I have to say, for me, and maybe to those who might be able to connect to it.
So now this might be the time in every story where the camera pans out and James Earl Jones or Morgan Freeman says “it all began…” My stories do not have that level of depth or sophistication. My story begins now, in the present, and without a beautifully dark and powerful voice over. That being said, feel free to imagine it. Kind of makes it better…
Thanks for reading everyone and I’ll see you next week.