Well, that was quick. One day into reading my old blogs and I found it, the thing I used to be before post-production, the key to my passions, though I think I already knew deep down. I love to write. Or rather, I loved it before life and advertising sucked it out of me. It used to be the thing I did to make sense of the world and myself, and myself IN the world. It was a healthy coping mechanism before social media came along and then I found out my thing – my drug – on how to numb out. Numbing has replaced coping.
Anyway – “trying to be a writer” and actually making money from it is the thing that scares me the most in this world. I don’t think I’m good enough. I don’t even think I’m enough enough. And I can keep doing what I’ve been doing, sitting on the creative sidelines and searching for passions elsewhere, or I can sit down and dedicate some of my social media scrolling time into writing and/or pursuing creative passions. It’s time to accept me for me. I want to be a writer.
I have a 2nd interview tomorrow for a position I’m not sure I want, but would allow me to make some money while I still try and figure this part of myself out. So, I write this now because maybe I should stop looking at it like a prison sentence and more of a means to an end. I want to have money, I want to move in with my boyfriend, I want to be able to take vacations and afford life. And, I need money to do those things. So, let’s put our big girl panties on – ask for what we want / need and don’t be afraid because if it’s not the right opportunity, then it will become known to us.
So, while I have a little chat with myself on what it means to dedicate time to writing and which project we want to start with, enjoy the following little blog entry that I wrote March 5, 2005 at 11:41pm. Will I write that memoir my 21 year old self thought I would? Or will it be that semi-authbiographical script I’ve been putting off about my time at the radio station in college. Time will tell. But I’m ready. Fuck.
.writing.
i never wanted to be a writer. ever. that wasn’t one of the things that came up on the list of “what do you want to be when you grow up?” i have a book from kindergarden that says specifically that i wanted to be a singer and a mom. i haven’t decided which is less attainable: when i sing it sounds like a cat is regurtitating a hairball trying to sing along to an ashlee simpson rehearsal for saturday night live, then again, i can’t seem to find a stable boyfriend, let alone a husband who i would be willing to procreate with. take your pick.
i can’t remember if it was archeologist or astronaut that came next on my “to be” list. in second grade, i had seriously, like a 1/2 year on dinosaurs. and i was HOOKED. that and indiana jones like totally converted me. i was gonna find fossils so fucking fast, the archeological world wouldn’t know what hit them. i used to dig out by the moutains in my front yard, cracking open rocks with a hammer hoping to find rare crystals or maybe a t-rex skull. either/or. that lasted about a month. i never found any crystals. or dinosaur bones. i just found bugs. and i hate bugs. archeology would have to be left to indiana.
i get airsick, so astronauting wasn’t gonna work out. plus, i suck at physics and after i saw apollo 13, i realized i probably would suck at being an engineer as well. that pretty much ruled out astronauting.
i thought about actress, as every young girl does. unfortunately, my acting skills are less than stellar, and i get sweaty, nervous, and blank out when i have to recite things in front of people. i’m funny, but my little nerve problem pretty much ruled out comedian as well.
i’m going to college for nutrition. but i don’t want to be a nutritionist. i thought i wanted to do research. but i’m bad at labs. and i hate them. although, labcoats are pretty cool. that’s the only thing i like about lab. hmmm. this is really going nowhere. let me get to the point.
the point is…that i never thought i wanted to be a writer. my mom gave me a diary when i was 6. i remember it like it was yesterday. it was purple, and i wrote my name in the front of it. and i used to write in it a lot. mostly about stupid things like what i did that day, what boys i liked, what girls i hated. let’s just put it this way. when i first started writing, i had to ask my mom how to spell vacation.
as the oldest child, i spent a lot of time alone. i liked to play alone. i used to write letters to imaginary friends with names like “jennifer” and “vixie” and “lucretia.” i used to run a newspaper and deliver newspapers to my family members’ doors. i used to write stories that were EXACTLY like fairly tales, but i’d just change the name. like..instead of cinderella, i wrote a story called “vickie + vixie,” and it was cinderella from the stepsisters point of view. wow, i can’t believe i just remembered that. i can’t believe i WROTE that. damn, i was a clever little bugger. fuckin’ 8 years old and crankin’ out fuckin’ hemingway shit. ok, maybe not hemingway, but still good.
creative assignments were never a problem for me. papers, essays, stories, poems. as long as i had inspiration, i was golden. but, for some reason…it never occured to me that i could -do- anything with it. with writing, i mean. writing was just something i did for fun. it’s my hobby.
i’m nearing the end of my college career, and i think i’m finally realizing what i want to do. i think the key to being happy in your profession is finding something you like to do, finding something that you can do for money and doing it for “work.” it won’t even -be- work. i’ve been finding myself getting excited looking at jobs on www.mediabistro.com. they’ve got plenty of creative jobs. writing jobs. entertainment jobs. i want to be a part of the creative world. i think that’s really what i want to do. and i want to write a memoir. regardless of whether people would read it or not. it’ll be like the diary of the ordinary or something. nothing spectacular, but something everyone can relate to.
i guess it all makes sense, though. on why i couldn’t see it. people always tell me how much they enjoy readnig my entries, how much it means to them. and i love it. it’s so flattering. i just…didn’t see myself as the writer-type. writers are loners. i mean, they sit and they brood and they smoke until they get inspiration, and are up at all hours scribbling away until the inspiration fades, and then they are back. thinking, brooding, smoking.
think about it. i’ve got asthma. i would make a terrible stereotype.
