There are all these people in the world. I see them in their cars (their cages), traveling, shopping, eating, talking, texting, puffed-up in scarves and hats in the winter, in regretful shorts and t-shirts in the summer. People dressed, undressed—swimsuits at the beach, gowns at the symphony. Alone, and together. All the what-ifs, all their stories.
I’m sad today. I’m honoring that emotion here on this electronic page. A post-teen poet. Electronica tears on digital paper. Blood, sweat, and tears, baby. On your alter I shed tears of ice and fire. [I wrote that last line of drivel when I was twelve.]
We are not masters of the universe. We are not masters of anything. We are small. We are created. It’s vanity and ego dashed with a sense of truth that wakes me in the morning—that and it’s not my time to die—that will come soon enough for us all—my eyes open every day and I set off to honor my depraved sense of self and make my mark on the world. Why do I think that I’m so fucking special? [I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo, What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here.]
This is not about endings or beginnings, though, it’s about all the stuffing in the middle of life. What will I do between birth and death? Who will give a shit? Why do I sit here and write? Is it really for me? Is it really for you?
I used to worry about being a writer. That was before I became one. I used to think, “How do I know if I’m a writer? Am I any good?” I wanted someone to see it in me, a teacher or a lover, perhaps, and tell me, “Yes, darling, you are a great writer. Now, go off and write us a masterpiece. Everything you touch will turn to gold.” I wanted validation without writing a word. And in the pre-social-media world, that was harder to get than it is now. Like me? Thank you.
I know now. I am a writer. And, no, I’m not any “good”. Oh, pipe down, I’m not fishing. Good is a stupid, useless word. (Talk about being a writer, egad.) I write. I live. This is how I get all the noise out of my head. Without this, I wouldn’t speak or function. And let’s be honest, mutes have difficult lives, too difficult for me to elect anyway, plus I couldn’t hack it, I would, without doubt, slip up and call someone a “fucking cocksucker” while driving—cat’s out of the bag on that one, baby. Drive already.
I’m not an actor. Not a musician. I have terrifying stagefright. I’m no good at faking it anyway. I am a writer. A self-indulgent whimp of a writer. An unpublished, unsolicited, un-workshoped writer hack with vanity issues and a crumbling interior monolog to boot. I can’t write fiction, not much. I keep trying to finish my novels and short stories, long-awaiting poems begging to be removed from the napkin, but I blog instead. I spend my time writing this shit—me, me, me—essays about me. No one gives two fucks about this shit except for me. (Again, not fishing, please don’t waste my time trying to make me feel better. I told you I’m honoring my sadness, my self-loathing, my ugly, angry, self-righteous bitterness right here on this screen. I do bleed for you, but don’t need a nurse.)
The best writing advice is: Get your head out of your ass, sit the fuck down, and write.
Oh, she can dish it out, but she can’t take it. [She’s running out again. She’s running, she runs, runs, runs, runs. ]