Of Writer’s Hesitation

Typewriter

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I want to write. I long to sit at my 1940’s desk with a quill in my hand and compose beautiful words. Sadly, I’m not writing. I haven’t written a complete story since I graduated a couple of months ago. It’s not that I don’t have ideas fluttering around my head, it’s just that I’m not writing. It’s a shame – I’m a pretty good storyteller.

So why am I not writing?

I can’t say that it’s because of writers block, as I already confessed to having ideas. It’s not that I don’t have enough time, I work a crappy part-time job and get maybe 20 hours a week – I have more than enough time.

When I picture myself writing everything is very romanticized. Sitting at my desk for hours every morning with a cup of coffee steaming beside me. But whenever I am about to start writing that’s when I freeze up.

I think that part of me is afraid of the process. Delving deeper into my subconscious may reveal things about myself that I’m not willing to confront or perhaps don’t want shared with the world. I’ve always said that fiction tells readers more about the author than non-fiction. Non-fiction is easy, it’s a glimpse into the author’s life, and they get to control how everyone is portrayed and what you witness. Fiction is the subconscious, what they are really thinking, and how they process the world around them – their soul masked by layers of characters and scenery.

So yeah, maybe I’m fearful. And for the first time in my writing career I’m completely on my own, no teacher to hand out assignments, or internship set a deadline. The only thing to motivate my fingers to tap away at the keyboard is me. Me. Me. Me. And I gotta say, I suck at self motivation. Give me a deadline and I’ll get the work done, and damn it the paper will be good. But when left to my own devices I shy away from the real writing and hide in work that is less deep, less personal, and less substantial.

I need to write.

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Of Unwanted Stories

Friends TV Show

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I love being told stories. I’m a book-on-tape junkie. If you’ve already told me an awesome story, I’ll happily listen to it another 500 times. I prefer to laugh, but I appreciate a well told tear-jerker or coming-of-age tale. But honestly, there’s one story that I never want to hear – sadly, I’m told it quite often. And that is the ever-unfortunately-classic, check out how much I drank last night, saga. 

I can see it in their eyes – a dull longing. They want to brag, about what they can’t quite remember, but boy do they ever want to tell me about it. And do I ever not want to listen. Cause you see, I don’t care. There’s not much more that I can say, I simply couldn’t care less about how much you drank last night.

But I downed 12 shots of tequila, 2 long islands, and … – yeah, I still don’t care. Belligerency is not cool, it’s annoying … and sloppy.

It’s not interesting to me how much liqueur they drank. It’s even less interesting that they can’t remember everything that happened. Frankly, that’s not even a story. A good story needs something interesting like characters, plot, controversy, etc. And any story, at minimum, requires some sort of action.

Now if they went on an impromptu adventure, found themselves hitch-hiking with a fellow named Hank, and ended up having to sell blood in order to afford a bus ticket home – that would be a good story regardless of sobriety. Hell, it’d be more interesting if the entire story was a detailed account of how they made a PB&J for lunch.

If someone’s going to brag about their alcohol intake then they better have something more to back it up. Did they meet someone? Dance? Ask a police officer for a piggyback ride? Hijack a kayak? Fall asleep? Get in a fight? – Did anything else happen that I should be interested in hearing about? If the answer is no, don’t tell me the damn story. It’s not a story. It’s a list which was intended for bragging rights.

I don’t care.

Of Dead Batteries

Girl Waiting By Car

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There’s been a recent development in my life where I go out to my car and yet again the battery is dead. Why? Because I forget to turn my lights off, a lot. Now I would argue that this is not entirely my fault – the beepy thing is broken. By beeping thing I mean the annoying high-pitched reminder that my lights are still on, a service I hadn’t realized that I relied so heavily upon till my string of dead batteries began.

The silly thing is that I don’t have my own cables, I always have to borrow from someone else.

Here’s my tally over the course of roughly four months:

  • Work: 5 times
  • School: 2 times
  • Parentals: 1 time

Nothing is more depressing than getting off an eight-hour shift at 12:30AM and coming out to a car that won’t start. First I’m struck with denial, no not again, start, staaaaarrrrrt! turning the ignition a few times before I rest my head on the steering wheel. Next I’ll call whoever I know that is either getting off with me or still inside the building (usually either Bryce or Jolene).

Friend: Hello?

Me: Hey, boo!

Friend: What’s up?

Me: So, I kinda left my lights on?

Friend: Again?

Me: Yeah. Could you come help me?

Friend: You gotta stop doing that!

Me: I know!

Friend: Aiight, be out soon.

Me: *Waiting for assistance, the pointless security guard shows up*

Security: What’s going on here?

Me: Oh my car battery is dead.

Security: Do you have help coming?

Me: Yup

Security: *Nods and stares at me*

Friend: *Exiting theater*

Me: There they are. *Pointing dramatically*

Security: Okay, have a good night. *Slowly drives away*

Me: You too.

Friend: Which side of the engine is your battery on?

Me: I don’t know, it’s inside the hood.

Then they’ll  hook my car up with their cables since I honestly still don’t know how to do it myself, turns out the batteries on my left side (thank you Bryce).

I always have to hold the cables while it’s being set up, which terrifies me because apparently if the metal parts touch I could die! What? Why’s this so dangerous? I’m truly pathetic with cars beyond the skill of driving them.

But I’ve gone three weeks without my battery dying! I hope I didn’t just jinx myself.