I’m not sure exactly when, but at some point this spring I got the idea to write about packing. Yes, packing. In retrospect, that’s the most boring fucking thing I could have ever possibly conspired to put on paper. It might even be worse than the “piece” I wrote for a journalism class on the dangers of bunnies; that, at least, was mildly entertaining bullshit. Fortunately for you though, once I got around to writing it I realized a story about packing would likely rank last on my personal list of must-reads and that I would be embarrassing myself were I to actually post anything of the sort. It was also around then that I started to seriously question why anyone reads anything on this damnable “blog.” (Or why I even have one. Ew.)
Obviously, any sort of writer who doesn’t have his or her head shoved so far up their ass they can see their tonsils has to wonder what it is about their stories and their word choice that makes for good reading. It’s the sort of doubt that I can never really shake and tends to come out in full force whenever someone tells me they’ve read something I write. Did they like it? Did they look like smirking idiots at the café? Did they really, honestly, truthfully think my couple hundred words were something worth reading? Especially considering my propensity to write vague, rambling stories about my childhood love for Barbies; why for the love of God would someone waste ten minutes of their day reading that?
In all honesty I’m quite in love with the process of writing in itself. I love setting myself down with my laptop, I love trying to pull together a logical story and I absolutely adore playing with words to spell out exactly what I want to say. What escapes me, however, is what it is about the final product that gets people reading. On days when I’m desperately trying to avoid chores or homework, I get to looking through my notebook and rereading old, half-assed stories and I have to wonder how far up my ass those ideas came from. After all, I don’t see why anyone cares about what goes through my head when I lose a notebook or why I read Cosmo; I sure as fuck wouldn’t (if it weren’t my own).
The worst part, I think, about spending so much of my spare time rambling is that I’m actually trying to make a career out of it. Not only am I expecting people to take time out of their day for my stories, but I expect someone to pay me for it. Yeah fucking right. Who’s about to hand me money for opinions as irrelevant as the snail squashed to my front step? Sure, I get the cursory “I loved what you wrote, T!” from the people I manage to bully, staring them down while they look over a newspaper page I’ve handed them, but it’s impossible to be completely fearless when my future depends entirely upon luck and talent. After all, when was the last time you saw a recruitment agency looking specifically for a sarcastic, highly impatient and egotistical young writer lacking any sort of legitimate experience or professional recognition?
Sometimes, I wish I could just give my notebook away; let someone else run with my many, many, pointless ideas only to post them on the internet. I’ve thought about it. It’s not like I have anything pertinent to say, in any case – unless you define my personal vanity as pertinent. But then, I’d be giving the opportunity to question the very point of spending hours in pubs and hundreds on beer just to yadder on to no one in particular to some other, self obsessed writing student who’s post them on the internet. And I just couldn’t let that happen; not when I have a story-sphere to maintain.
Obviously, any sort of writer who doesn’t have his or her head shoved so far up their ass they can see their tonsils has to wonder what it is about their stories and their word choice that makes for good reading. It’s the sort of doubt that I can never really shake and tends to come out in full force whenever someone tells me they’ve read something I write. Did they like it? Did they look like smirking idiots at the café? Did they really, honestly, truthfully think my couple hundred words were something worth reading? Especially considering my propensity to write vague, rambling stories about my childhood love for Barbies; why for the love of God would someone waste ten minutes of their day reading that?
In all honesty I’m quite in love with the process of writing in itself. I love setting myself down with my laptop, I love trying to pull together a logical story and I absolutely adore playing with words to spell out exactly what I want to say. What escapes me, however, is what it is about the final product that gets people reading. On days when I’m desperately trying to avoid chores or homework, I get to looking through my notebook and rereading old, half-assed stories and I have to wonder how far up my ass those ideas came from. After all, I don’t see why anyone cares about what goes through my head when I lose a notebook or why I read Cosmo; I sure as fuck wouldn’t (if it weren’t my own).
The worst part, I think, about spending so much of my spare time rambling is that I’m actually trying to make a career out of it. Not only am I expecting people to take time out of their day for my stories, but I expect someone to pay me for it. Yeah fucking right. Who’s about to hand me money for opinions as irrelevant as the snail squashed to my front step? Sure, I get the cursory “I loved what you wrote, T!” from the people I manage to bully, staring them down while they look over a newspaper page I’ve handed them, but it’s impossible to be completely fearless when my future depends entirely upon luck and talent. After all, when was the last time you saw a recruitment agency looking specifically for a sarcastic, highly impatient and egotistical young writer lacking any sort of legitimate experience or professional recognition?
Sometimes, I wish I could just give my notebook away; let someone else run with my many, many, pointless ideas only to post them on the internet. I’ve thought about it. It’s not like I have anything pertinent to say, in any case – unless you define my personal vanity as pertinent. But then, I’d be giving the opportunity to question the very point of spending hours in pubs and hundreds on beer just to yadder on to no one in particular to some other, self obsessed writing student who’s post them on the internet. And I just couldn’t let that happen; not when I have a story-sphere to maintain.
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