This is an amalgam of thoughts I had in the shower, between laughing at how Annalise from How to Get Away with Murder says “Mr. Gibbons” and wondering what I should eat for breakfast, and thoughts that have been weighing on my mind for a while now. I’m unsure of where this post is going, but I’m sure I’ll have said something of substance by the time I reach the end of it. At least I hope, and I do hope it’s at least moderately coherent. I’m planning on shorter paragraphs, that seems like a good way to break the monotony. What am I even saying? Anyway, let’s go.
I used to be a good writer. I used to. I was, really. I don’t think I’m one to brag, but my writing was something I prided myself on, especially considering two things: I can’t spell to save my life and I usually have so many thoughts running through my head that I can barely focus enough to complete one thought before jumping to 50 others. For example, while struggling to think of a way to end that last sentence, I thought of other topic ideas for future blog posts – whether I relate better to Black characters or queer characters on TV (we are severely lacking both, and the intersection of the two), how much driving scares me, and how much I hate when people talk in songs.
Do you see this, it’s happening in real time. I had at least a couple more ideas for this post and I’ve already forgotten what I wanted to say here. That’s why I began the previous paragraph with “used to” and “was.” The spelling problem and focus problems have always been problems for me, the point is that I used to have better control over it. Well, the focus one at least. I don’t think I’ll ever be a good speller, I’ve accepted it and autocorrect is here for me.
I used to be able to organize my thoughts and express myself in a way that didn’t make me feel like a flustered mess. I could jump from thought to thought and eventually end up right where I left off. I know focusing isn’t something I alone struggle with; everyone gets off track because concentration is hard. It’s pretty common, I guess. One of my main frustrations is that I used to have control over it. I used to handle it and not let it take me over. And at some point I forgot how to do that and I don’t know how to get that control back.
It sucks. It really sucks. It is, in fact, a humongously annoying thing now. Because I used to be a good writer. And now I don’t know what I am. I’m not a writer, according to other writers. Writers write everyday, writers say, regardless of circumstance. I haven’t written in months. Probably in a year. I mean, I haven’t really written. I’ve written texts and emails. I’ve written tweets and tumblr posts on things that don’t really matter. Or even, things that do really matter, but I’m not talking about important stuff. Or, that important stuff.
I used to write. I used to write about stuff things that I can’t talk about. I used to write until I felt better. I used to write because it was the only thing I could do, that I felt comfortable doing, that I was confident in doing. It was the one thing that I was good at.
And now, I don’t write. I don’t write. I don’t write and I don’t feel better. I don’t write and I don’t talk, so the stupid stuff that floats around in my head never has a way to get out. It stays up there. It builds up and I try to make it smaller, but I can’t. I think I can get by without writing and without talking, but the truth is that I can’t. And I need to.
I can’t focus because I don’t write, and I don’t write because I can’t focus. It’s awesome. I’m just kidding; it sucks. I’ve already said that. But it’s worth repeating. And it’s worth knowing this. At least for me it is.
The bottom line is that I need to write. Admittedly, I’m not in the best place right now. All the stupid floaty stuff in my head has been doing its stupid floaty thing and the cramming it down isn’t working; it’s never worked and it won’t ever work (ha, clearly). I need an outlet and the only outlet I have ever had was writing. It didn’t even matter what I wrote about, as long as I was writing it. The texts and the tweets and the tumblr posts, that wasn’t writing. I don’t put my full weight behind that stuff. Not that I don’t care about it because, trust me, I put a lot of thought and effort into my tweets. I didn’t get to 200 followers by luck (that was a joke).
The reason I made this website, the reason I spent money buying this sweet, sweet domain was to help myself. I put my resume up here and some articles I’ve written, videos and pictures I’ve shot, so that potential employers could get a glimpse of me. But this website is mine. It’s for me. And I want to write again. I want to be a good writer again, or I want to at least be good at writing again. I want to feel better. I’m tired of squishing down the thoughts. I want to write until I don’t have the stupid floaty thoughts anymore, and I want to write until every unfocused, unrefined idea that skirts through my mine is penned and I can concentrate. I’m making an investment in myself.
Long story short, I’m writing again. I’m more than certain the posts and writings will be hazy and unfocused, and I’m accepting that. It’s ok. I like that I’ll be able to look back at my silly posts a year or two years from now and see my growth. I’ve accepted that this is a marathon, not a sprint. I’m in recovery, so to speak. So, whoever you are out there, future me, random stragglers from the Internet who somehow inexplicably ended up here, Twitter or tumblr followers, I’m gearing up for this journey and I’m actually excited. I wish I would’ve realized this sooner, but better late than never I guess. If you’re with me, if you are here with me in this, get ready.