Feb 22 2005
untitled part 51
For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a writer. Yet, problematically, I’m often cursed by my own expectations of my ability. I have this story that I have kept close for so long, this story that I know needs to be written, this story that I keep not writing. I think it’s because it’s so true it scares me, and while I have always strived for honesty in my writing, I very rarely incorporate the truth.
I haven’t written anything that means something to me in well over a year. In fact, for most of 2004, I shelved my writing completely. Part of this was out of necessity — so much of my mental, emotional and creative energy was poured into my job that I felt that if I tried to split it into two directions, my head would’ve exploded — the other part of it was that I didn’t want to say what needed to be said.
But this morning, I woke up and knew what needed to be done. And I’m tired of lying to myself, saying that I’m not good enough to do justice to the stories that ask me to write them. Maybe it’s because a writer I admired blew his head off on Sunday night (fare thee well, HST), and I myself have stood at the edge of suicide more than once. I know that life is short and it’s hard and it hurts and all I can do is bring it a little truth while I’m able.
So today I’m going to stop being a complete fucking pansy and I’m going to put aside my fear of my inadequacy and I’m going to chain smoke until I’m nauseous and I’m going to write something that’s true. Whether it comes out as something terrible or something good enough to make me sit back and smile in quiet surprise, I don’t know, but it’ll be a start, and it’ll be mine.
So there.
