Behind You / Casual / Not Behind You / Random Musings / Totally Fucked / Uncategorized

Write. Again.

Coming back to this ne’er-do-well, generally unread blog after over a year feels sad.  It feels pathetic and what-exactly-is-the-point-of-it-all?  It’d be one thing if I’d really made my mark in the world somewhere or wrote some shit that I was super, duper proud of.  You know, like when a really famous YouTuber quits making YouTube content for two months and then they make a triumphant return and everyone throws a YouTube party or whatever it is exactly happens on YouTube, I honestly have no idea and it was probably a bad choice of analogy but you know, everyone is really, really happy that the YouTuber is creating again because it adds something to the universe and something was missing when they were missing.  It’d be one thing if it were like that.

But the truth is, I’ve never, not once in my three decades in this consciousness, looked back at something I’ve written and thought, “Yes, this is totally worthy of…well, anything.”  I’ve never really, like really thought “this is definitely worthy of someone’s time, this is definitely worthy of free space on the internet, this is definitely worthy of interrupting the breaking news that Renee Zellweger might have at one point gone to a movie premier before her plastic surgery had settled (topical, I know).  This writing – good or bad – is definitely worthy enough to exist.”

Maybe this self-hate is the result of perfectionism.  Isn’t that what we’re told all writers do: reread and rewrite and rethink and remorse and really did I just write this shit?  Although, I’m only saying that to be cliché because I have never once in my life been so caught up in creating something so perfect that I’d ever bother to rewrite it.  Rewriting would require A LOT more self-reflection than my delicate ego is currently willing to withstand.

Or is it just general female insecurity?  Too many years spent apologizing for things that are not sorry.

“Oops, I’m so sorry I wrote that word in the way in which it wasn’t intended to be written, I’ll never do it again, my mistake, my bad.  Please forgive.  Never again.”

Maybe I’ve spent too many years fighting against the urge to be heard at all times while simultaneously forcing myself to never say too much, be too much, encompass too much.  Don’t take up too much space, whatever you do: lose 20 pounds, cross your legs tighter, purse your lips together, clutch your pearls closer against your chest and for the love of god, don’t let your thoughts bubble up so big into your throat or through your fingertips that they become words unruly enough to pop the barrier between you and another person.

See, now I’ve done and gone on a pointlessly try-hard tangent.  Didn’t I start this piece out with the intention of pointedly mocking (in a really cliché way) all those Christian oriented blogs where a blonde woman sets out to teach us how to truly “live, laugh, and love” through the convenient use of orphans?

And wasn’t I then going to bitch and moan about how everyone cares so much about that writing, but boohoo nobody cares about my particularly insightful drivel?

Because I started on that line of thinking in my last piece (a piece my boyfriend told me was an “offensive and angry stream of consciousness”) and I thought, yes, this is really something I should continue to explore in the next thing I write (that I certainly wanted to tackle in a super bitchy, unfair, hack way) but when I actually did start this piece I got too distracted with my words about the plight of the female condition that I failed to even mention anything about blonde Christian saviors in the first place.  Oi.

Because I’m tired.  Tired of my shit.  Tired of my writing.  Tired of my bitterness.  Tired of being old man who shouts at cloud.

oldmanyellsatcloud

I found a word to describe myself in a Huffington Post article this morning: I’m an ultracrepidarian.  It means “a person who gives her opinion on things she knows nothing about.” I was going to try to sneak it in a paragraph somewhere to act like I just knew that word and was using it in, like, a totes natural way, but looking back at everything I’ve already written, it’s like, why even bother with the pretense?  Y’all know I don’t just know that word.

Ok, I’ve really got to wrap this shit up, but I’ve written myself into a real self-defeating, self-pitying corner.  I can’t just go on and on all day about how little I know or feel that I’ve accomplished creatively in my lifetime.  Can I?

Agh!  I thought that above paragraph would lead me to a nice wrap up thought, but it didn’t and I’m still typing away trying to politely leave this conversation which turned out to be about nothing (seriously, if you were on the phone with me and I just said all the stuff I wrote above, you’d be SO BORED and probably playing candy crush on your phone while I just blathered on and on and on about old man and the cloud).

Oh god, panic is setting in.  I’m still here.

I’m just gonna…

Back out slowly….

Real, real quiet like…

Without you noticing…

That I didn’t have anything to say….

For the last 854 words……………………………..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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