I have not written anything for quite some time. I have been consumed by other things: namely, having fun and relaxing. I have a deep hatred for writing. A deep hatred. This hatred comes from a place of intelligence, combined with whatever it is that makes me a bad writer. How can someone so smart be so poor at communicating?
Why and how can I have things formulated in my head, but no words to express them? That’s the universe’s most cruel joke. Either that, or giving an introvert a desire to communicate through words. Why give an introvert a desire to communicate at all? Would not his life be better without it due to his introversion?
There are those that say that the universe is not conditioned for the human experience. I would hope that these people do not identify as “Christian”. For what kind of God would create a world in direct opposition to the human experience? Especially a “loving” God? Does the loving and knowing parent subject the child to poisons?
How many times in my pieces do I need to ask myself why I write? I believe I’ve asked it in at least twenty different things that I’ve written. I briefly had a compulsion to ask it here. But I caught myself. The real question is: why am I not writing?
I have at least one theory. One theory I have comes from a perspective of independence and approval. You see, no one is telling me to write, or to not write (at least, there isn’t a significant number of people in either camp). And, being still young, I’m accustomed to being told what to do. In school, by parents, etc. And considering my naturally anxious nature, I constantly sought affirmation; lest I do something I’d regret later.
I’ve done some really ignorant things in my lifetime. I’ve wronged others, and have been wronged. I have been ensnared in that common humanity. But things change.
I am not the same person that I was when I was younger. I mean, I’m still me; Cody. But I’m not the same Cody. But I am…
Let’s get back to my hatred of writing. Why do I hate writing? I believe it stems from a couple of things:
The first, I would say, is that it is a very independent process. I can’t have someone over my shoulder, telling me what sounds “good” and what doesn’t. I also can’t have someone telling me what to write. So: what do I do?
I have the ideas, but not the confidence to do them. Although over the years, and still currently, there are friends and family to encourage me to write, I desire independence. I desire to write because I want to write. And I do want to write. But I’m so goddamned bad at it.
Relatively, I may be a good writer. And, relatively, I may be a bad writer. I think that, relatively, I’m good at determining my “good” writing, and, relatively, I’m bad at determining my “bad” writing. But who is to be my ultimate judge?
Me, of course. Unless, of course, I wish to let the general public decide (a thought which I deplore at my core).
So what am I to do? How am I to become a better writer by my own standards? Who am I to judge? Sure, it is my work. But by what criteria do I judge my own work?
I fully believe that I’m too inexperienced to decide this for myself. At the time of this writing, I think the only qualification I have regarding decision-making is the recognition that I am not happy with my life. Or, rather, that I am not happy with my career. “No one is,” you may say. Well, I suppose that I should just give up. Thanks for reading.
…Nah, of course not. I have something else in me. Maybe not the best. But I have something different in me.
There is something in me that I need, if only for self-therapy. And what is that? Well, at least in this instance, it is writing.
So why haven’t I been writing? Several factors. One, as I said before, I don’t really know how to do it. But I don’t want to learn from others. I want to take my writing lumps just as I’ve taken other lumps from mistakes in my past. I want my words to be my own: even if they be intellectually inferior to whomever the fuck reads them.
Lack of confidence. This stems from being told that I’m repetitive. Maybe I am. But I don’t want to take my writing and make it more “original” simply because someone would enjoy it more. Maybe it is repetitive. Maybe more people would like it if it wasn’t. Maybe it makes people want to rip their hair out. I just don’t fucking care anymore. I said, I just don’t fucking care anymore.
Why else am I not writing? Well, for one, there’s that giant, daunting wall of success: that elusive success. The goal that 99.9% of the population strives for. That financial relaxation. “That shouldn’t keep you from writing.” You are full of shit. If you think that you can hold down a job, write, and steadily maintain a litany of other interests, then you, quite simply, do not have as many interests as I do. Period. Not saying you need them, but it’s clear that your interests are more limited than mine.
And what makes me different than all of the other people out there who are unhappy with their financial lives? Not a goddamned thing. And do I care? Of course fucking not.
If I were to say “Well, no one is happy with the amount of money that they have, so I guess I’ll just accept that, too,” I’d think myself a goddamned fool. And I care not what you think I should think about that. I’d think myself an idiot.
I think I have potential. And I’ll have to convince the world of that. And I’ll have to accept the indescribable wave of criticism that will come my way to start out. And that’s ok. That’s fine. I like that, actually. I like criticism. Granted, I don’t like unwarranted criticism. But I like justified criticism. (And, sometimes even, unjustified criticism, depending on the claim).
I have spent my entire life fearing my own actions. Fearing my own decisions. I shouldn’t anger God. I shouldn’t anger my parents. I shouldn’t anger my friends.
Fuck all of that. Fuck. All. Of. That. That is what unconditional love is for.
So what does all of this ultimately mean? Well, it means a couple of things:
One, I’m pretty fucking unhappy with my life. I need to do something about it. And I think this writing thing has something to do with it.
Two, I need to be more independent. I want to be more independent. I’m tired of listening to people. I’m done. I’m done listening to you commenting on the fact that I’m tired of listening to people. I’m tired of listening to you “Yeah, but”ters. I don’t fucking care. I don’t fucking care if you have a valid point. I don’t fucking care if I’m making a terrible, dangerous decision. I don’t care if I’m immoral in your eyes, or even in the eyes of God. I just, don’t, fucking, care. I don’t. I don’t. I’m done pleasing others. God forbid, I’m done pleasing the Almighty. I am just, fucking, done.
Now, of course, this means something really big that I haven’t quite mentioned yet. This means that I will have to accept the consequences of my actions. So how do I deal with that?
Well, the best answer that I have come up with for myself is that “I’ll be dead someday.” Now, my inevitable fate does not mean that I will become a terrible person who steals, murders, and rapes under the justification that I’ll be dead someday anyway. But it isn’t to please God. It isn’t to please my mother or my father. It’s because I don’t want to. I don’t want to do those things. Finally, I am starting to realize that my convictions should only please myself, and if they so happen to please those that I care about, then that’s just an added benefit.
So, in conclusion: I really need to start writing like this more often.
But I don’t know how in the fuck I’m going to do it…
…And I damn sure don’t want to hear your goddamned advice about it…
(…Should I tell you that I wrote this in about 15 minutes to make you “ooh” and “aah” about my writing ability? I don’t really want to. But I need some kind of selling point…and some word of mouth would be nice, of course, if you found this insightful. And if you think my cockiness is unwarranted, feel free to leave a comment below, and if it isn’t too egregious, I’ll approve it, and let the rest of the internet read it and judge its validity as well).