I’m an adult now. A real one. Bills mock me when I ignore them, loans haunt me when I think about eventually turning 30, and new tires aren’t something I write into an underdeveloped script. Though, I would love to write an absurd story about a person who chooses their daily coffee over fixing their broken down car; maybe in another life. I disappeared from the world of writing for a while. I truly had convinced myself that because I couldn’t write an excellent short film in one evening that meant I had been a failure, that words weren’t my friend, not at least in the way I wanted them to be.
I met someone who quickly spoke a lot of life into me in a short period of time. He told me over coffee he really enjoyed my writing. it infused me with this sense of confidence that I am ironically embarrassed by. I’d like to pretend my insecurities of my own self-worth, my own work, my own words weren't valued so low, but a few words by someone I didn’t really know all too well gave me a boost that was sure to eventually make me feel foolish. And it did in a way when opportunity slipped quickly away and I realized my blog had two posts on it, one being something I wrote a while ago and yet pretended like it was new material, and I realized I couldn’t even pretend to be a writer. I stopped writing for myself during this short time, and wrote for others, with the hope that someone would click like or comment on my blog with praise. I longed to once again be compared to someone I admired, but nobody was listening — rightfully so.
Sometimes breakfast is my proudest accomplishment in a twenty-four hour period, and even though I make pretty delectable breakfast burritos, I think it leaves room for a lot of wasted potential in my life.
So I sit here writing a cliche story, about a cliche wannabe writer, at cliche 6am in the morning, putting in my cliche daily hour of writing. "If you want to be a writer, you have to write every single day!” they say as they sit on a throne of awards looking down to crowds of people. But they’re right. And I should. And I am going to do that. Today is day two, and I demolished a cinnamon roll during the previous paragraph, most likely because I needed to construct some sort of emotional barrier between me and the far too truthful words. Sweets make me forget how much I dislike myself — at least I did learn that in college.
I sit here writing a story of sorts, hoping that it counts for more than everything else I have typed, written, or thought of and quickly forgotten while shampooing my hair. I sit here, too pretentious to not be self-aware, too tired to not want to be in bed, and too scared to open the folder I have of old ideas which I never got around to Frankensteining together.
But I write.
We sat on the grass, leaning against the brick wall of a random apartment building. I wondered why we didn't do this more often, sit in the shade with each other. I looked over at you, and you looked back at me. The authenticity of the moment reminded me of Boyhood. You looked more real than ever before. I sat in hurt, and you didn't quite know what to say, except that you knew we would always be friends. The word bye can contain oceans of hurt.
AUGUST 2, 2014 (3:14 PM)