A couple of years ago I decided that my New Year’s Resolution was only to be kinder. Not nicer, kinder. It worked out well. Or that’s what I tell myself. If I’m an asshole, no one is telling me that to my face so… thanks, guys.
I’ve stuck with that as an ongoing resolution and life mantra ever since. Am I a pro at it? No. I still hate shitty people and I still think plenty of people are the worst. But that’s life. Not everyone is as awesome as me and I need to accept that.
I haven’t made any new resolutions since then. Partially because I’m perfect (duh) but partially because something like 110% of people give up on new year’s resolutions within three months. This past December however, I made a secret resolution to write more. I didn’t really settle on what exactly to write or how to write “more”. I thought about writing some more blogs (obviously didn’t happen), writing in a diary before bed each night (empty journal still on my nightstand), finally ironing out the children’s books I want to write (didn’t even begin to start this one), and writing greeting cards (started this, abandoned ship). All of which, more than two months into the new year, have yet to come to fruition.
You see, the best worst tricky part about a secret resolution is the lack of accountability. I didn’t have anyone checking in to see if I was following through on anything, which means I didn’t have to even consider following through.
It’s not that I don’t want to write, it’s just that I have to catch up on Teen Mom and Grey’s Anatomy.
When given the choice lately between choosing to do something creative and productive that brings me joy, or shutting my brain off and zoning out in front of a screen, I choose zoning out. I’m a damn zombie. Give me your brains y’all.
Hey, has anyone noticed that modern zombies don’t eat just brains? When did zombies stop caring about only eating our brains? When did they branch out into eating the rest of us? I can’t be the only one that noticed. I mean, I guess it makes sense, it’s hard to be discerning when you’re a zombie.
I ended up going into another paragraph about zombies but it was dumb and tangential so I abandoned it. THIS IS MY PROBLEM. I CAN’T EVEN BRAIN ANYMORE.
I don’t know what is happening inside my noggin, but it is not productive. Hell, I don’t even know where I’m going with this post. I thought it was about making a resolution. Then I thought it was about writing more. Then it just kind of turned into a flood of confusing ass thoughts that don’t really make for good storytelling or a good blog post.
I’ve wanted to write, but I often feel like I have nothing interesting or unique or compelling to say. Then I don’t write because I think no one would want to read it, which is dumb because I should be writing for myself, not for you weirdos. I let the fear of not entertaining other people keep me from doing something I really enjoy doing. And then I end up with shitty posts like this where my brain is so excited to words again that it can barely form full sentences.
So what I’m saying is, this post is all your fault.
I guess the point of this entire post, for me (god only knows what’s in it for you), is a release of pent up fear, anxiety, and writer’s energy. This post is a spring cleaning of my brain. It may not make sense, and that’s fine, but hopefully it will make some space inside my brainhole for something better. I’m not even going to bother rereading this before I post. This post needs to exist just as weird and confusing as it is. Because that’s what it looks like inside my brain right now and that’s what I’m trying to conquer. So TAKE THAT, Brain!
I’ve succumbed to writer’s block, and the only way to fix it is to acknowledge and write shit anyway. Whether you or I like it or not. Well, not “write shit” as in write things that suck. I mean “write shit” as in write stuff. I’m not going to purposely write things that are horrible. That would be weird. Or maybe it wouldn’t be weird. It could be very hip. I could purposely write horribly while I wear my black rim glasses and my flannel t-shirt. I would be so cutting edge and I would never have to write anything good for the rest of my life. Pressure’s off!
Okay, that particular plan might be a little convoluted.
I just have to write more. I need to let go of the fear, remember that I’m amazing, and write whatever the hell I want to write, whenever the hell I want to write it. And it will make my heart happy.
It’s that simple.
And I need to step away from the DVR. Before it eats my soul.