I was a lonely, introspective child. I developed a habit of talking to myself, or thinking out loud. I grew up into an even-more-lonely teenager who kept the habit going strong. And now I’ve become an ever-so-slightly less lonely adult, if you can really call me that. Often, this “talking to myself” takes the form of me spouting off lyrics to songs I’ll never write and sentences from books that will never exist. On this beautiful morning, the following came out:
I stumbled through the room, picking up discarded tissues in a lonely, post-orgasmic stupor.
It’s not exactly Pulitzer material, but I like it. I don’t know where it’s going or where it’s been, but I like it. It’s got something to it, an atmosphere — at least, it does in my mind. But I have such a difficult time with writing. After all, what’s purpose does it serve? At best, it will sit, unfinished, in a folder on my computer. It won’t make me a dime, and I’ll never have the patience nor the talent to craft it into something that I’m truly satisfied with.
Creativity seems so almost-pointless to me, an amateur do-nothing. Perhaps if I was a bit more together and resourceful I’d be able to come up with a plan or a goal. Like Burt Bacharach, Dusty Springfield, Jack White and countless others, I just don’t know what to do with myself. I feel like I’ve always had a ton of worthwhile, decent creativity inside of me, but I’ve never known what to do with it. I don’t do well without a purpose. I just stumble around blindly, never accomplishing anything. This is true for all areas of my life. Perhaps this is why romance is so important to me, since it gives me a purpose, something to care about.
Anyway, I’m not really sure what the point of all this is. I wish it was easier to be a writer. I mean, I suppose it is easy — you just write. But it’s ridiculously difficult to get anywhere with it, especially when I don’t even know where I’d want to go with it in the first place. Fiction? Nonfiction? Short? Long? I don’t know. But dear God, I hope I get to do something with it all. An imagination is a terrible thing to waste.
