The thing is…is that there are a lot of things that I just don’t give a damn about. Two examples of such would be:
How much your house costs?
How much your clothes costs?
In other words, superficiality isn’t one of my strongest points. I could wholeheartedly give a damn about what you have and how you got it. All I care about is if I want it and what I need to do to get it? I don’t covet my neighbors lives or things or ideas, I do however, want to know what made you this way? No, I’m not a Philosopher, Anthropologist, or Culturist for that matter, I fancy myself a Writer, but then, doesn’t half of the world? Whatever, that’s their shit. Unlike the halves that claim to be infected with the idea to create, I actually have the damned disease.
I can’t not write.
There’s not a day that goes by that I can’t create something via the written or spoken word. I have to tell a story aloud or via blinking cursor on a blank screen. I don’t know how to live without having the ability to create another world in which I chose to live. My entire adult life (thus far) has been plagued with a war in which my sane self has taken a complete drubbing. I feel often times very Janie May Crawford in Their Eyes Are Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston like, you know yearning to be free, but not sure how to get there and stumbling upon it, one mistake at a time. As a matter of fact, that aptly describes my adulthood. At my day job(s), I’m most of the time so unhappy because I find/found myself thinking that I shouldn’t be here, I should be writing. I closed off friendships because all writers know that idle time is our damn playground.
We live for that shit.
We love it.
More so, MORE SO, when we have a character, when we have an idea, it must get out. It most certainly cannot stay within the confines of our mind. There have been characters inside of me that have ruined my damned life. No, I don’t have schizophrenia, but seriously, sometimes there’s a story that just has to be told, and someone has just got to listen to it. And I refused outings; I refused to speak with anyone until they’ve heard what I had to say. I know, it’s a sickness, but didn’t I mention that I had it bad.
It’s not joke.
And it’s definitely more than just a notion.
I fought it. I fought it for years, thinking that as an only child, my imagination was just very over active and that, eventually I would just get over it. I feigned indifference when reading a book and coming up with the sequel to the damned thing before the author. Not in the literal sense, but I spent time, too much time, thinking of ways that someone else’s characters could live on forever. I wanted to give them another story, I gave them a family, I gave them kids, I gave them more hardships, and then one day I got mad.
I got angry stinking mad.
Well cool your boots, I’m getting there…I was angry because I spent time dreaming up things for someone else’s character and no time focusing on my own.
So, I started.
And then I couldn’t stop.
Today, here I sit with approximately eight and half (I’m still working on this last one) completed manuscripts (rough drafts), that have not been edited or shopped around, because up until about a paragraph ago, I never considered myself a writer. I was too afraid to.
Fear, that pretentious bitch, I won’t allow her to get to me again. But she had me for a while. A good long while too. I wanted and prayed to be normal, you know, the type that liked the nine-to-five gig, the type that didn’t have to sit up all night until the thought was complete, the type that didn’t see a person and wonder what his/her story was, and if you couldn’t figure it out, you’d make it up.
I didn’t want to be that type.
You know the type that is afraid to switch to android-like phones, because with her Blackberry she could open-up a word document and allow her thoughts to flow freely without having to ensure to push the right touch screen button. The type that in the wee hours of the morning and night had finally shut down her laptop but picked up said blackberry when in the bed because the short walk from the computer to the bed had offered her an idea of how this character must’ve felt when finally laying down for the night. No, sir or ma’am, I didn’t want to be the type.
Thus the faux apathy.
I tried to ignore it, I tried to fight it, but I knew I couldn’t. Because while working on some important project or another within in my “Day Job” I knew that the feeling of hate that I had towards said project or another wasn’t normal. But what was normal, what felt right, what felt real was the honesty in which I knew to be a truth that nothing in this world could shake and that is…I’m a damned writer. LITERALLY!
Damned you ask?
Yes, damned. Damned, because with this comes a great responsibility and granted I’ve kicked fear’s ass to the curb, I have yet to have conquered anxiety, thus the finished unrevised, unedited, unshopped manuscripts. Baby steps is what I’m taking. I’ve made a vow to go back and start the revision process and the goal is to by the end of the summer to look for a literary agent that believes in my work just as much as I do, for now however, I’ll blog. I’ll let you all find pleasure and humor in my misery and I’ll be okay with that for the time being…unless you’d like to share yours. As you know, we all love a good story and I’d love to know that I’m not the only one out here that feels that way. Please…say, “It ain’t so!”
Res Ipsa Loquitur