Sometimes I don’t want to post
But to be clear: I’m not talking about writer’s block.
And I’m not talking about writer’s block in the same sense that I’m also not talking about a lack of “inspiration.”
Because — and this is a total aside, but just real quick since we’re already here — the feeling we ascribe as “writer’s block” is fake. Writer’s block isn’t real. It’s just a silly, human mess of soupy insecurities and limp noodle second-guessing ourselves, and the only way around writer’s block is to write. And the longer we sit there and tell ourselves that the story — or inclination, or whatever the fuck— comes first, the farther we drift away from it all, barely even trying, like Tom Hanks reaching for Wilson, us tethered to our excuses like he was to his raft.
Anyway. Writer’s block isn’t real.
Just like “motivation” and “inspiration” aren’t real.
In fact, “motivation” and “inspiration” are pretty much the biggest crocks of the entire universe. Anyone who’s done anything substantial has done it regardless, and anyone who sits around “waiting” to feel sufficiently “inspired” or “motivated” is on a fast train to nowhere.
But that’s not what we’re talking about today.
Today we’re talking about having a ton to say — and being in the sort of mood where we share an image of some cool-ass chica rocking camo and underboob and some egregious gold chain like a real badass — and not really caring how it fits in or if people like it.
Sometimes we’ve got plenty in us but it’s ours and not everyone else’s
Sometimes I come home and I’ve got half a dozen potential posts, but when I swirl my mental Rolodex or my mini mental globe or whatever it is up there where I log things for future use, running my finger along it and stabbing randomly to make it stop and tell me what to write, I’ll realize that I don’t want to post about any of it.
Not because I don’t have the story — but because I do.
And more because: not every story is meant to be shared.
And some days, I just want to be selfish.
Sometimes I’m in a different place than where I think my readers are, and then we’re at a real standoff, aren’t we? And it’s the kind that’s a total impasse, because of course it’s all in my head, so I make it so.
Some days I want to relish my headspace without sharing. Some days I want to roll around it in without parsing it out, like sliced pie, for others’ consumption. Sometimes I don’t want to pretty it up, or see how it fits in, or end with a clean, motivational message. And some days I don’t want to set it aside.
Some days I want to use the word “I” 35 times in a single 4-min post. (I haven’t actually hit that yet. I just checked. But I might.)
Good shit comes from being selfish
You think it doesn’t, I know.
I know you think this because we all do. We’re all socialized to play well with others and fall in line; to give rather than take; to put others before ourselves.
And it’s all bullshit.
Some of the most intolerable people we know are selfish, it’s true. But some of the most “giving” and “generous” and “selfless” people are pretty fucking intolerable, too. Because, sure, it sucks when someone is selfish enough to use you. But there’s something even more remarkably annoying about someone who still uses you for their own self-esteem, but tries to bundle it as being good for you.
Whatever. This post wasn’t about that either.
This post isn’t even about the fact that the greatest people in the history of humanity — all these fantastic human beings who accomplished great things for the rest of us — did so not for our benefit, but theirs; because they dove at an interest or inclination; because they scratched their own itch.
I could make this post about that, but I won’t. Partly because there are plenty of posts out there if you want them — see the Self Improvement and Entrepreneurship tags for a start — but mostly because: it’s just not what I want to write.
This post is mostly about honesty. It’s about being genuine. It’s about showing up, in whatever way the cat drags you in, and getting ass in chair while facing the world head-on.
I could’ve written a half-hearted post (and I have; we all do — any time you read a post that doesn’t include a personal anecdote or back story or the author’s emotion, it was written from that place of half-heartedness) but some days, I don’t want to do that. Some days, I don’t want to carry the cop-out. Some days, I want my real shit.
Some days, I get selfish. I want to write what I want to write, and share that badass underboob babe, and let the chips fall where they may.
Some days I get selfish. And that’s all this post is, fam.
And if you’re still looking for some message beyond that, then I’ll state the obvious:
Some days you should be selfish, too.