Revisiting, again

It’s funny how easy it is for you to seem like you don’t even care. Not funny in the natural sense of the word, obviously, but funny how you made it seem like you ever did at all. I can’t tell though, did you?

Reading someone else’s mind isn’t easy, although I thought I was good at it before. Now? I’m convinced I don’t know what anyone is thinking at any moment no matter how obvious they’re being. You’ve really ruined every shred of confidence I ever had in being with other people. Maybe that’s my own fault. Which is that fucked up kind of funny again because we we’re never really together anyways.

You really do make it look easy though, forgetting me. I wish I was as good as it as you are, but that’ll be just another thing that I fail at. I’ll remember you and ache for it until the light in my eyes go dark.

Maybe you were just trying to get rid of me, that’s what I keep circling back to. You had a taste and the sweetness stroked your palate enough to keep you coming back for a little while, then something happened. Was it too sweet or not enough? I often think it was too much, that seems to be the theme of you when it comes to me.

If I’m too much go find less,” as the phrase goes.

You didn’t even wait for me to say it.

New eyes

Looking at yourself

through the eyes

of someone new

is sometimes

exactly

what you need

when old eyes

only see

what they’ve wrought.

Maybe I’m Not A Fraud

Do you ever have moments in your writing where you think, “damn.  Maybe I’ve actually got a smidgen of talent,” and the possibility of what you’re doing is made a little brighter on the horizon?

That’s why I keep this blog.  It’s a snapshot of my writing.  As I originally wrote in my About section I used to write silly little things in the margins of newspapers or in magazines and on random napkins and leave them wherever they were.  After a while I ended up missing the chance at keeping those random writings and having them to look back on.  The stories in my head were gone and I’d never read them again.  So here I am now.

I was reading back through some of my past writings of the last couple of weeks.  I came across a few that I remember enjoying when they were done and I gave them another scan.  I smiled.

“These aren’t that bad,” I said to myself, “actually they’re pretty good.”

Then I kept reading.  I read two or three more and then I got to one that I didn’t really remember what it was about and I opened it to read.  It was short, not even a thousand words but the further I read into it the more excited I got.

It wasn’t a great story or amazing surprise but I felt like it was really good writing.  The flow was good.  The descriptions made me feel.  I put myself back into the character, the narrator, and I could feel it.

Of course I’ve instantly gone into anti-ego mode and told myself that it was easy to get back into the character because the character is me.  Someone else might not find it as easy, but I still liked the writing.  I enjoyed the description.  I felt something and that’s what I always try and do with what I write.  I’m not a great plot organizer or twist ending writing type, but I think I have the ability to write things that can make the reader feel what the characters are feeling.

I hope that’s enough because it’s always enough for me.

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Writing Every Day

I want to be a writer.  An author.  A guy who can spell the word author properly the first time without having the little red line under the word screaming at me, “NO YOU IDIOT THERE IS NO ‘E’ IN IT!”

I type first, think later.

Ultimately that is my goal.  My dream.  My fantasy.  My thing that I fear deep down that will never happen but still have rosy thoughts about while floating on a cloud of cotton candy and listening to Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds play muted in the background.  Weird huh?  It seems unlikely but I enjoy it even if it is only an escape from monotony.

So I write every day.  Well I don’t write every day but I write to have a post every day.  I write whenever I have a combination of time, motivation and a clear head.  Those three don’t often speak to each other, typically only getting together a couple of days a week to discuss what’s been going on since they last met.
Part of that is my fault.  (All of that is my fault?)  I don’t set up a nice place to get together, order drinks and pick at nibbley-bits of food.  No semi-sunny nook in the corner of a bistro/bedroom/kitchen away from chattering and televisions.  I think that would do wonders as when I do write I do it best in complete and utter silence on Sunday’s.  Alone.  With nobody around and nothing else distracting me (aside from the vastness of the internet).

I write “every day” as a reminder that I do enjoy writing.  It seems silly to have to remind myself that I love writing but what are we if we aren’t complicated creatures?

  • Extraordinarily insecure
  • Fickle
  • Forgetful
  • Exhausted
  • Descriptors that don’t start with an E or an F
  • Lost
  • Scared

I write every day because I don’t want to stop.  I know that I love writing but just because you love something doesn’t mean you hold on to it.  Sometimes you love it so much that you let it go.
I love writing, and the idea of being a writer that the fear of not being good enough to be one is enough to not want to write and have it proven.

Of course there are the many people that go on with their motivational speeches saying that you are a writer if you want to be one.  Making it seem so simple as if you’ve got faerie dust sprinkled on you and you can now fly.  It’s true, to be a writer all you need to do is write.  To make it your life, though, isn’t quite the same thing.  Perseverance isn’t a readily available pill in the health food section at the grocery store.

I want to be a writer.  I want to write books.  I want to see my name on a book on the shelf at a bookstore.  I’ve got no delusions of being an author on the New York Times best-sellers list, but merely to be able to write for a living instead of doing what I currently do would be a dream come true.
The difficult part is where I fear I’m not good enough.  That there are literally millions of people out there who have this same desire who are just as good if not better than me at writing.  If I put this fragile idea out there holding all of my insecurities and it gets shoved off of the desk and told no and it shatters I don’t know what would happen.  This isn’t to say that I know but don’t want to admit it, I actually don’t know.  I’ve never thought about it and never broached the subject.  If I’m not good enough to be a writer and have that confirmed with rejection I would be floating in a void.  Suspended in nowhere and trudging through nothing.

So it’s easier and more logical to not try.  Not trying keeps the idea a possibility even if its so far in the distance I have to squint to see it.  If I’m never told no then I still have that escape route to be able to do something I love rather then something I loathe.

But I love to write so I continue to write.  I’ve forgotten it at times.  It’s slowly built inside of me throughout my life.  I’ve written and then stopped, but I’ve always come back to it.  Now I write every day to motivate myself.  I’m showing myself that I have enough ideas to sustain me as a writer, even if they are only half developed or less.
I write because I love the idea of making new people experience different places.  There are alternate realities that need exploring and stories that need continuing.  I’ve daydreamed ideas and worlds that will never exist again because I never thought to write them down and make them real.  That is something I don’t ever want to lose or forget.

So even with all of this doubt and insecurity I’m going to continue to write.  I’ll write poetry and prose.  Mythology and Fantasy.  Science Fiction and romance.  Everything I write will bring me closer to that possibility in the distance so I won’t have to squint quite so hard to see it.  If I keep writing every day at least I’ll never stop.  Some of it will be good and most of it will be bad, but every once in a while I’ll write something I love.  When that happens I’ll be reminded that maybe I am good enough to find myself on a bookshelf some day.

My writing history

I’ve wanted to be a writer for a very long time, yet I was never encouraged or surrounded by any kind of artistic mindset.  I’ve never had artistic friends or relatives.  There has never been a community I’ve been involved in that had a creative outlook on life.  It’s why I love San Francisco so much, the free-spirited mindset of the people that live there, maybe not as much anymore but the essence is still there.

I remember when I was around 11 or 12 and seeing my mom’s computer in her bedroom, this was a very old computer that didn’t really do anything but hold word documents.  My mom read a lot of romance novels, I’m assuming as an escape from the mundane existence of every day life.  They were the recess peanut butter cups of literature.  I don’t recall what she had written on her computer but it was in the form of a story.  I believe she was attempting to write her own, although I never asked for confirmation because if she’s anything like me she would be mortified to know someone read her unfinished works even if they don’t remember anything from it.  But knowing she had a drive too, however faint or strong it might have been, makes me a little more motivated to push further.

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Enough about you for now

If only I could string together a few more thoughts for a bit longer I might be able to create something worthy of praise.

It’s hard to say something positive about oneself.  It always feels like unworthy bragging.  As if I’m telling other people how great I am while I’m lying and painting fabrications over what’s real.  Yet deep down I’m holding a secret thought, “maybe this isn’t completely terrible after all.”

How do you gain confidence in your own work when you haven’t actually done anything?

Yes, of course, just keep going until you do.  The motivation should be the want and desire.  Grappling with the fear of realizing I am actually a failure and not actually good at anything is kind of a hard consolation prize to accept.

Praise is a fickle and inconsistent mistress.  She runs her finger along my shoulder as she walks by me.  Her lips curve into a smirk as she looks over my shoulder.  When she lets a few kind and whispered words breathe against my ear they feel so sweet and make me shiver.  I can only watch her as she walks away and disappears into the distance, never knowing if I’ll see her again.

I’m not sure what is worse though; writing something I feel pride in and having it trashed or hearing nothing at all.

This isn’t really anything of any point or purpose, simply pouring some thoughts onto the street and hoping they don’t fill up in my cup again.  Fear of failure.  Lack of confidence.  Crushing doubt.  Humility.  All that and a little bit of caffeine.

For love, success and all the other things I lack I further seek until I die.  Let them blow their kisses from a distance.  Let them toy and tear at my soul.  I will never stop following their tracks.  No matter the path I’m taken, no matter how my age grows old.