I’m reading The Hunger Games again. I might read it a third time in a row. I don’t know. I understand it is insane to read a book three times in a row, but that’s how I roll.
I was feeling pretty bleak today. I was feeling “crying in the shower” bleak today.
Today is the anniversary of the break-up. I don’t miss the relationship, by any means, and this year has been incredible. I have had so much growth, and I am more genuinely happy than I have ever been. (I know that is strange to say when I just admitted to crying in the shower, stop judging.) I felt stupid for even letting myself note it.
I have also been feeling frustrated with myself that nothing has been happening with my writing. I feel like I should some how have accomplished more, and time is running out.
Any writer who tells you that they don’t want to have their stuff read is either full of shit or a total nutbag. Writers write for two reason: we have things in our heads we need out, and we want people to read them. We want people to read and appreciate our stuff. If you write and have no desire to write something that people will read, then you aren’t a writer. You are someone who happens to write. Well, that but only less judgy and harsh, so let me attempt to explain.
I think of it more as someone who is really into golfing (or any other sport/hobby/craft). They love to golf. Golfing makes them feel whole, and when they golf, they feel a deep connection to their inner them. I think most people have this feeling about something. This doesn’t make them a professional golfer.
It is more than about making a living writer, which would be glorious I won’t lie, but the idea that this is something you want to use to interact with the world. I want people to read my stuff, not just to be famous, or make money, but to feeling like I am making some sort of impact. I write to put stuff out there because of this crazy belief that I can make people laugh, feel, or have some sort of impact on them.
I haven’t been feeling that lately. Objectively, I know I am a better writer than I have ever been. I am learning about who I am as a story teller. I am creating ideas at a rate I never have before, and I am looking at everything I read differently. Logically, I know I am getting better. Today, I just feel like I am banging my head on a wall and making no impact on anything, and any moment I am going to pass out with a bloody forehead.
So, today I sent Tina a text that said, “I feel really bleak today. I don’t want to blog today because I know it will come out really bleak.”
She called me back.
She told me that anyone would feel the anniversary. I felt better.
She told me she felt the same way about her photography that I do about my writing. I felt better.
We raved with each other about The Hunger Games. I felt better.
She promised me an eventual drunken night at a quiet piano bar that requires a cab ride home. She said, “Sometimes to get back into your own head, you need to go completely out of your own mind.” Simple brilliance.
I don’t know why having someone understand why I feel so bleak today made me feel less bleak. Well, I do. It is the same reason I write this blog. Sometimes we all need to know that someone else gets why we feel the way we do in order to be able to handle this business of trying to be happy and live. It is odd that sometimes you have to be sad in order to be happy, and if you avoid or ignore the unpleasant you can’t ever really feel the good.
So, my friends, fight to be happy and to be yourself. They are one in the same. If you are willing to love and accept, you will find love and acceptance, including yourself. Shit happens and you have no control over it, but you can decide how you want to handle.
Those are my lessons from this year. Well, and that drunk texting is bad. Sorry again, Tina.