Recently I've gotten into looking back on my old Facebook posts from years past. Most of them are cringe worthy, and quite a few of them reference people that I'd never speak so highly of now.
I was looking back on this day in years past when I found a status from 2011 that says "Love, thy name is waking-up-at-seven-in-the-damn-morning-and-being-ok-with-this." And for the first time I finally give credit to 21-year-old me for having a bit of wisdom.
Because love, thy name is movie nights and aquariums and late night adventures, yes. Love thy name is hugs and smiles and gifts. But love has many names.
Love, thy name is listening to their pain, their broken hearts over girls that aren't you.
Love, thy name is learning about other pains of the past.
Love, thy name is trusting with your pain as well, letting the walls break down no matter how terrified you may be of what will happen when you do.
Love, thy name is investments of time you make between everything else, money you don't have much of to begin with, hard work that you find the energy for somehow.
Love, thy name is caring, thinking, remembering, being present, waiting, being consistent, holding, trying, falling, flying.
Love, thy name is waking-up-at-seven-in-the-damn-morning-and-being-ok-with-this.
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Faltering
Epictetus said "If you wish to be a writer, write."
1800 years later, I say "If you wish to be a writer(like, a paid one), be ready to put yourself in debt for a degree that may or may not be useful, take on every shit job the world throws at you, and possibly eventually publish a novel that may or may not sell depending on how much teenage dystopian fantasy comes out that month."
Ever since I was little, I've written things. The first story I can remember was about a deer that got lost and had to journey back home. It was written on big pieces of poster board, complete with illustrations. Unfortunately, it was lost to the sands of time(my parents could keep locks of my friggin' hair, but not anything I actually wanted as an adult).
Around 6th grade, I took a short story written for an assignment(and praised by my teacher of the time) and turned it into a novel-length piece. My intention was to send it to the Dear America series; obviously, I did not.
A couple years ago an old friend of mine invited me to be part of a website of his. We'd been old RP buddies on Gaia(yeah, that's was the phase of internet I grew up with) and we had complimentary styles. It was fun. It kept me writing. People liked what I put out. It was good.
But now, what have I got to show for all of that? A blog read by one person(and I appreciate her immensely, trust me), and nothing else. I have all the ideas in the world and none of the motivation or gumption. If I force myself to write something, it's stilted and awful. When I am in a good mood, everything flows so naturally that when the mood goes away, I can't quite grasp what I'd been doing at the time.
And even assuming that I could magically get myself to write, what good does that do? There's no real way to get your foot in the door. All the freelance jobs-ghostwriting, ebooks, blog posts-take forever to build up into any sort of portfolio. You know, IF you get the jobs you bid on, IF you have the motivation that day, IF the stars align.
No matter what career path I think I want, I always come back to writing. It's what I do. I'm good, when I get it done. But until I can learn to tap the potential, harness some energy, and get my shit generally together, I'm stuck to writing entertaining blog posts.
1800 years later, I say "If you wish to be a writer(like, a paid one), be ready to put yourself in debt for a degree that may or may not be useful, take on every shit job the world throws at you, and possibly eventually publish a novel that may or may not sell depending on how much teenage dystopian fantasy comes out that month."
Ever since I was little, I've written things. The first story I can remember was about a deer that got lost and had to journey back home. It was written on big pieces of poster board, complete with illustrations. Unfortunately, it was lost to the sands of time(my parents could keep locks of my friggin' hair, but not anything I actually wanted as an adult).
Around 6th grade, I took a short story written for an assignment(and praised by my teacher of the time) and turned it into a novel-length piece. My intention was to send it to the Dear America series; obviously, I did not.
A couple years ago an old friend of mine invited me to be part of a website of his. We'd been old RP buddies on Gaia(yeah, that's was the phase of internet I grew up with) and we had complimentary styles. It was fun. It kept me writing. People liked what I put out. It was good.
But now, what have I got to show for all of that? A blog read by one person(and I appreciate her immensely, trust me), and nothing else. I have all the ideas in the world and none of the motivation or gumption. If I force myself to write something, it's stilted and awful. When I am in a good mood, everything flows so naturally that when the mood goes away, I can't quite grasp what I'd been doing at the time.
And even assuming that I could magically get myself to write, what good does that do? There's no real way to get your foot in the door. All the freelance jobs-ghostwriting, ebooks, blog posts-take forever to build up into any sort of portfolio. You know, IF you get the jobs you bid on, IF you have the motivation that day, IF the stars align.
No matter what career path I think I want, I always come back to writing. It's what I do. I'm good, when I get it done. But until I can learn to tap the potential, harness some energy, and get my shit generally together, I'm stuck to writing entertaining blog posts.
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