A Note on Writing

I’m a writer. But I haven’t written for a while. At least nothing that’s meant to be published or for the public. I have my own personal journal, in which I attempt to write almost everyday. I’ve had a journal, well, by now, a great many, since a young age. I still have my pink Hello Kitty journal from when I was around six or seven. My journal entries have evolved from summarizing daily events to confessions and crushes as a preteen to pondering greater life questions to battling depression through the exercise of writing. Writing has always been with me. And I should think it will be with me until I die.

But, for some odd reason, I haven’t the motivation to write anything worth publishing; or should I say, used my writing for public purposes. Although I was actively involved in my university paper, serving as the opinions editor and senior copy editor during my last year, my activity has come to a halt. I often think about writing, and all the things I want to write about, but I never end up doing. It’s that last step of executing, and turning a thought into an action, that I’ve lacked for the last year. It has plagued me since.

Why? Why haven’t I been able to write? Well, I could argue, that I haven’t been able to mostly because I don’t have a copy writing job. Much less a job. I don’t have a job. I do not write because I do not have a job. What I prefer to writing, though, is editing. But for right now let’s focus on the writing. Now, why don’t I have a job? Ah, yes, that’s the big question. The question every individual my senior asks me when the subject of my career arises. Since graduating college, I’ve been harassed with this crippling question. Up until now, I’ve been telling people ” I want to explore the world,” or “I’m going to go live in Buenos Aires for three months before I really start looking.” I keep putting it off. I keep coming up with something that’ll further prevent me from pursuing my passion. It’s been a comforting lie I’ve been telling everyone, myself included.

So again, why? Why have I been putting it off? Why have I consciously been avoiding it all?

I finally figured out why.

Because I don’t think I’m good enough. Can you believe that? What a fucking joke. I can hardly believe it myself. I’ve subconsciously been avoiding putting myself into the world of writers because I don’t think I’ll match up. Because I’m afraid of failure and rejection. Because a whole shit storm of reasons I’m sparing you from having to read and laugh at. So I’ve  been idling away in between doing nothing and something I don’t care about because I’m afraid to really go after what I care about. Jesus Christ. Excuse me.

Yes, I had an emotional existential breakdown when my own mother, yes, my mother, was the one who pointed it out. I had just graduated from college, left all my friends, broken up with my boyfriend of a year and a half, and moved home. Poor me, right? I’m aware life can be worse, and to the reader, my “post-grad crisis” may come off as insensitive and privileged. I know. But this is my fucking story, so if you don’t like it, stop reading it and fuck right off.

So as cliche as it all sounds, its nonetheless true. Laughable, really.But only because I can look back and laugh at it myself. I’d probably laugh if you pointed it out before I did. I’ve now come to the realization that if I don’t get off my beautiful phat ass and pursue my writing and editing career, I never will. Outside of the sphere of careers and employment, I have always held true to the mantra of going after what I want, telling the person who I love that I love them, and even if it doesn’t work out, I can walk away knowing that I tried. I guess in my mind, failing at my life’s passion, was way scarier than being rejected by a person or a university or tearing two major ligaments in my right ankle (this is true). In a way, I believe this goes to show how fearless I have lived my life, and I’ve done so with passion and conviction. It’s a testament to the nerve and ambition that flows in my veins, and the desire that burns within my heart. Knowing I’ve done so much, and faced the obstacles life has placed within my path, I need to start believing I can do this, too.

Besides, why would I want to read other people’s words for the rest of my life, when I can write just as fantastically as anyone else? My words are worth writing. And that, is my written form of a self-pep talk, full of gall and conceit. Like I said, if you don’t like them, go fucking write your own.


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