I wish I had a story…

an aspiring writer who has nothing to say.

At any given moment my head is about to explode. Of course this is not literal, please do not think that I’m on the verge of spontaneous combustion. I simply mean that in most moments my mind is teeming with words I wish I could put on paper. Here’s the problem though:

I’m inserting a cliched picture here of poetry in a coffee shop to break up the monotonous text.

I have absolutely nothing I deem worthy of contributing to the world of published works.

All these thoughts that keep swirling about up there aren’t exactly fantastic ideas for sharing. No one cares about my wordy opinions, however clever my head thinks they may be. They’re not.

The average person reads about a hundred stories a week about fascinating people doing fascinating things. They’ve got kids half my age who are inventing things that’ll save the planet, yet here I am just trying to navigate college and figure out how to be an adult.

Everybody says “follow your passion” like it’s a basic principle we should already know how to do. But what if (like me) you’re just not good enough at what you’re passionate about? I adore writing, but making a career out of it is a daunting idea and I’m no where near good enough. Even if (like this) I magically find something I think is worthy of typing, it usually amounts to rambling.

So, here we are. At an impass. Do I choose to wander aimlessly down a path towards something I love? Or do I choose something practical that will provide for me and take care of my basic needs?

Maymont Estates: One of the places I spend time writing about nothing.

I think the mere fact that I’m writing this shows which side I choose. And this is why writers and artists starve.