y’all, i don’t KNOW what is going on in my life.
right. since the last time we’ve spoken, i’ve spent most of my life in bed breaking almost every record there is for the number of depression naps TM taken before noon. i’ve also maybe been to the gym twice, and have written nothing (until today. today i wrote something and also this! so. yes. carrying on –) despite my alarm that goes off every day at 5pm asking me in all caps and too many exclamation points: “HAVE YOU WRITTEN TODAY??!?!!!” the answer as of late is almost always no.
i don’t know if what i do here means anything on the grand scale that i hope my life will be. i don’t know if i’ll ever believe that my writing is good enough for me to finally stop thinking that i’m stealing everyone else’s work and that i don’t have an original bone in my body. i don’t know if i’ll ever not feel like there’s a big blazing LIAR sign above my head every time i tell someone that i’m a writer. i’m a writer? i…ah, man.
“You can’t tell anybody that you want to be a writer, or you’re trying to be a writer. If you’re writing every day, then you’re a writer. You may not be a working writer, but you are a writer. And if you’re not writing every day, and you tell me that writing is your passion and is who you are and who you want to be, you have to examine why you’re not writing every day… maybe you just like the idea.”
– Shonda Rhimes; powerhouse, writer of Scandal and Grey’s Anatomy, icon
i try to write every day because i feel like i need to write every day. some days are hard, and i’m working on that, but i want to write every day. whether working or not, i want to know that this thing – this idea that i’ve assumed to be almost all my power since i was 11 – is real, regardless of how very real the impostor syndrome is too.
i’m a writer and i’ve always considered that i am other things but the core of me is really as simple as the first line of my instagram bio. i am of mess, of words, of love, and of christ. an infinite, overflowing, overfeeling mess first, but my words…man, do i love (haha) them. i love the strength they give me and that they can clean my mess while adding to it. i love that i don’t have to think too much about how i want to say something because i know words are my preferred medium. i love how difficult it can be to find the right ones even though they’re everywhere. i love words and my words and the ones that aren’t mine.
is this making sense at the moment? i’m not sure if i’ve really cared about things making sense on here since 2014.
well, here we are. it is nearing the end of june, and the only consistent thing i have in my life are my monthly me posts. so, expect one of those shortly. i need to write the rest of my atlas series. i was really loving it and — you know what? writing every day allows you to keep the momentum from a day where you wrote something good, regardless of how long ago it was. i think that’s why i enjoyed writing the first half of that series; because after every post i would start the next one and know that i could write because i had written.
i want to write every day again. i’m a kind-of writer. i’m an aspiring writer. i’m a depressed, terrified, sleep deprived writer, but i am a writer. today, that will suffice.
love and light,