The gaping blank page
The first time I put off starting a blog I was seventeen. It's been thirteen years since then. What can I say, procrastination is a form of art. An anxious, masochist art. But alas, the inevitable is called that for a reason, so here I am. Writing. A blog. Thirteen years after my first try. When it's not even cool anymore.
Will I stop after the third entry like I always do? That remains to be seen. For now, I guess I just will milk this sweet combo of serotonin and motivation and see how long it drags me along. But truth be told and with the risk of sounding like a snob, I feel like this time's the charm. I think it's got to do with something about "write what you know"?
See, I remember watching this movie about Mary Shelley once when I was in college. My memory of it is foggy, but at some point, someone tells Mary to go an live a little before sitting down to write and expect anything good because one can only write about the things that are true to them. So, she does, and as it happens with anyone that follows that frankly shit but necessary piece of advice, life leaves her like that meme of the disheveled Bratz doll.
Despite the warning of movie-Mary Shelley, I went, "Well, tragedy is not going to happen to me! Let's go find something to talk about!" ...Can you picture me looking at the camera like I'm in The Office? Because that's what I'm doing.
Anyway, this is to say, I've always felt at home when I write because I tend to explain myself better in text but there was something bothering me about the things I wrote before. They felt, I don't know, untrue. But now, after my turn being the disheveled Bratz doll, I finally have enough things to say that the words leak out of the silence and fall on the page. Even if I try to stop them. Now, things feel like I actually know what I'm talking about. But I stand to be corrected.