I Wrote My Way Out

I wrote my way out of the Philadelphia public school system. Given my proclivity to miss class for both legitimate and not so legitimate reasons, I never would’ve graduated if it wasn’t for my ability to write my way out of practically any situation or jam. Writing has always provided me an out where there otherwise was not one.

I wrote my way out of entire careers I never would’ve freely chosen for myself to begin with. I wrote my way out of dead end middle management corporate positions that likely have an overall suicide rate that would probably shock the likes of people who have never been forced to work them, by circumstances not of their choosing. It could be said, in a roundabout manner anyway, I wrote my way out of an untimely and tragic self inflicted death.

I wrote my way into corporations you’ve heard of, who paid me to do exactly what I’m doing at this very moment-writing. I wrote my way out of mediocrity and damn near into notoriety, atleast the humbling version of it anyhow.

As a kid, I wrote my way out of boredom, trouble and ambivalence. I wrote my way out of my own troubled thoughts and overly worried mind. I wrote my way into relationships and out of being alone. I wrote every word either above or below everything in any place you’ve ever saw my name. I wrote my way out of ever having to depend on AI to write something for me, and I wrote it in a more intriguing manner than it ever could have or would have for me.

I could have written my way into law school or a doctorates degree, but I wanted to write this instead. I wrote my way out of pain, but also what so many people out there call success or consider a normal life. As I’ve told you, mediocrity is one of the things I’m proudest to have written my way out of.

I’ve written my way out of the darkest of places, both the real and made up kind. I’ve written my way into the hearts and minds of thousands and thousands of people all over the world, thanks to the internet and dare I even say Medium itself. I wrote my way into places I would have never otherwise been invited and rooms I honestly had no real business ever being in. After I exited them early by choice or was asked to leave long after I should’ve on my own, I wrote about it, self published it and called it a book. Then another after, just cause I liked the feel of it. I wrote my way out of despair, depression and first world poverty, then wrote my way back into all three, just to see if I could. Knowing all along, I can always write my way back out.

Because at the end of the day, theres nothing I’ve come across that I can’t write my way in or out of. I can write. I won’t say better than you but I damn sure won’t say worse than you either. I’ve written too much, and too often and read even more, to ever say either thing and mean it in any genuine fashion. I wrote my way out of hell and when my time in purgatory is through, who knows, I may just write my way into those pearly gates someone once wrote about and convinced the masses it was called heaven.