I Don’t Care If You Read It, But I Care If You Like It
I keep a diary, on my computer and in a notebook. I have a twitter, I have an anchor account. I trap all passing reminders in my phone’s notes. I have scribblings in a sketchbook.
All these ways of expressing my thoughts, both grown and sprouted, but nothing matched the feeling on here; probably no one is reading any of this. I don’t promote my stuff, I don’t interact with other members. I don’t write about anything current. But all I need is the possibility. The possibility that some of my words are being read; the possibility that they’re even being read by the person I want to read them most. For someone with as vivid and oftentimes bothersome imagination as mine, that’s all it takes.
I used to write with rehearsed phrases I inked after thinking about how poetic and stoic they’d sound. Sometimes they’d pop into my head at random times, and I’d have to finish their stories with the same alphabetic beauty. ..It took me a long time to write anything. It was hard to link my paragraphs, to elegantly compose my theme.
Then, about two years ago, I threw it all out, and started writing exactly how I spoke. That’s where I found myself last week, looking at the sentence I’d blasted out onto one of my cover letters. “In a city with so many people, there’s room for everyone. Yes! I yell out to my hamster as the activist spirit takes hold. There’s even a space for you and your creepy rodent hands!”
Wtf. I mean, yeah, it’s how I speak. I embellish a lot. I use about 4 adjectives before I get to anything remotely verb-like. But wtf.
The problem isn’t really that my writing is too…colloquial, I suppose? Drastic editing can always solve that. The problem is that by essentially transcribing my streams of thought, I become incredibly sensitive to any criticism, even from myself, because it’s commenting on my own brain, my own floating jellyfish tide of wants and fears and ideas.
Here goes it: Well, why are you writing on a public forum that you’ve stated you appreciate for just that, and then saying that you’re too sensitive to criticism? I drive myself insane in my own head sometimes; being forced into embodying empathy for my entire life, I see all sides too clearly to keep track of what is actually my position, my favor. For every thought I have behind an action requiring any measure of rehearsal, I have 4 more nays and what-ifs and well maybe you should considers.
Maybe you should consider shutting the fuck up because no one really cares about your life; a 20 year old who dropped out of college and has a family she hates and an ex whose 2 year tenure comforted her more than an entire life with previously-mentioned family. Oh, and I’m abruptly unemployed after having been persecuted (no, seriously) by a megalomaniac CEO who subsequently labeled me “toxic muck” and was too big a coward to fire me himself, so I’m all sad and miserable and stuff. Extra, extra, read all about it.
Well, there are plenty of books on the New In Fiction tables in the Strand about nobodies, that when looked back on after reading, you realize they’re about nothing. Someone might find her life poetic and moving and “inspired”.
Probably not, though. There aren’t any factories, functional or Warhol, in this life, nor any cigarettes stomped out by cheap boots by the water. There are abusive and absent parents, a lonely childhood, lots of mental illness, even a suicide somewhere in there. But all that’s too poetic, too depressing and most definitely not quiche. There’s nothing in that sweet spot of nostalgic depression and a troubled youth blossoming into a metallic dress swirling around mystery men in the smoky dark.
And so, then, like a wheelchair at the edge of a cliff, I’m going to stop now.