This isn't my first blog. Or even my tenth. In the past I've created blogs with the goal to be seen as interesting, cool, special, or (in some cases) anonymously fucked up. To be honest, I don't think I'm all that interesting and I'm certainly not "cool", but some people think I'm special and I really am pretty fucked up, depending who you ask. I feel like I'm ready to share the truth non-anonymously, even if that means a few serious anxiety spikes, accusing phone calls, or shit-talking behind my back... because really, all those things happen anyway, so I may as well say my piece in a way that I see fit.
Truth is, I've always wanted to become an accomplished novelist when I grow up. I started writing little books and poems when I was in third grade and by sixth grade I was getting a lot of praise from my writing teacher. She would read my stories aloud to my class and to the two other classes she taught that day as examples of good creative writing. She would tell me things like, "I look forward to reading your books someday", really encouraging stuff for a kid who felt otherwise invisible. I grew more confident in my writing and I started delving deeper and getting weirder with it. My biggest inspirations at the time were Stephen King and Dean Koontz, so my writings weren't always kid-friendly even though they were kid-creations. I remember one day I asked my mom to read the beginnings of what I hoped would be the next great America novel. The story was admittedly dark and disturbing, but to me those were the best and most engaging kind. As she was reading, with me hovering expectantly over her shoulder, she stopped partway through and said in a very concerned and careful voice, "This is really dark... what is going on with you? What have I done to make you feel this way that you could write something like this?" ... Not the response I was expecting. In a couple of disappointed sentences my mom had managed to plant the seed of self-doubt deep into my mind, while also turning my creativity into a reflection of her failings as a mother. I had always been an anxious child, unsure of myself and desperately wanting to fit in, but my writing was something that I thought was special about me and in one fell swoop I suddenly thought that it was actually just another thing that was wrong with me. So, after that point I started to keep my writing secret and secrets have a way of growing darker. My stories and poems slowly turned into angry, depressive teenage journaling, and from there it spilled onto the internet in the form of the ten-plus blogs mentioned above. It all became fractured, scattered, and convoluted until finally it became nothing at all as I deleted the blogs I grew bored with, lied on the ones I found most interesting and finally threw all my years of teenage journaling into the garbage with the birdcage waste.
I can't tell you if this blog is going to be my jumping off point into the writer's world, but I can tell you that I hope it is. I also hope that someone finds the contents interesting and cool, despite me.
Truth is, I've always wanted to become an accomplished novelist when I grow up. I started writing little books and poems when I was in third grade and by sixth grade I was getting a lot of praise from my writing teacher. She would read my stories aloud to my class and to the two other classes she taught that day as examples of good creative writing. She would tell me things like, "I look forward to reading your books someday", really encouraging stuff for a kid who felt otherwise invisible. I grew more confident in my writing and I started delving deeper and getting weirder with it. My biggest inspirations at the time were Stephen King and Dean Koontz, so my writings weren't always kid-friendly even though they were kid-creations. I remember one day I asked my mom to read the beginnings of what I hoped would be the next great America novel. The story was admittedly dark and disturbing, but to me those were the best and most engaging kind. As she was reading, with me hovering expectantly over her shoulder, she stopped partway through and said in a very concerned and careful voice, "This is really dark... what is going on with you? What have I done to make you feel this way that you could write something like this?" ... Not the response I was expecting. In a couple of disappointed sentences my mom had managed to plant the seed of self-doubt deep into my mind, while also turning my creativity into a reflection of her failings as a mother. I had always been an anxious child, unsure of myself and desperately wanting to fit in, but my writing was something that I thought was special about me and in one fell swoop I suddenly thought that it was actually just another thing that was wrong with me. So, after that point I started to keep my writing secret and secrets have a way of growing darker. My stories and poems slowly turned into angry, depressive teenage journaling, and from there it spilled onto the internet in the form of the ten-plus blogs mentioned above. It all became fractured, scattered, and convoluted until finally it became nothing at all as I deleted the blogs I grew bored with, lied on the ones I found most interesting and finally threw all my years of teenage journaling into the garbage with the birdcage waste.
I can't tell you if this blog is going to be my jumping off point into the writer's world, but I can tell you that I hope it is. I also hope that someone finds the contents interesting and cool, despite me.
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