Sooo this is a little something I wrote a while ago in a fit of angst and frustration (grr). I stumbled upon it, and it kind of felt reaffirming to me. Back-story is this: I’m studying journalism to pursue my dream career of, well, being a journalist. But for those of you who write for a living, or who aim to in the future, you know the dilemma we face as writers; unoriginality. It’s enough to scare you into writer’s block (I think this same fear can be said for just about anyone pursuing a career in a creative field). Any who. Here’s my first blog post dedicated to B**ch-ranting….and of course, angsting. Over my words…
“There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at the typewriter and bleed.”
I’m afraid of my words. I’m afraid of committing them to paper, because then it makes them real. It makes the stories real, the mistakes glaring, and the tone morph into its own delusional cliché. It is in fact, spelling out my shortcomings. Not only as a writer, no, but as a human being with flawed, unoriginal thoughts.
In reality, nothing gets more to the point than writing. Language carries so much power and substance, and it’s in many ways, an art that cannot be bull-shited through abstract sensibilities. So what the hell? JUST TAKE MY FIRST BORN CHILD ALREADY!
Maybe I just need to stop stewing in my fear and neuroses… yet the latter is more often a product of the preceding. Stupid words. Sometimes I feel as if I’m not really writing, but actually projectile vomiting existential/quarter life crises all over a word document, then pushing it around and exclaiming, “This is my masterpiece!” This is the career I wish to pursue? To binge “eat” all of life’s experiences, only to ceremoniously regurgitate them? To support my “word bulimia” with a meager, annual income of forty-five grand?
But then again, maybe there are worse things. And if words are my way of releasing myself, from myself, then why not give it a go? Maybe in the end, I’d rather be a slave to my art, than be enslaved by it.