Tuesday, April 21, 2015

You can't always write yourself a better story.


In my last post, I wrote about why I stopped writing for two months. And even though a full month has passed since that post, I still haven’t done as much writing as I’d hoped. I’ve sunken into something I can’t quite name – a mild depression of sorts, most likely – and find myself scrambling within the confines of whatever I’ve trapped myself in.

I feel the most like me – all creative sparks, laughter, passion and voracious for information and inspiration – when I’m at the newspaper, slaving over layout or layering the pieces of a story while I’m surrounded by women that I admire and love, who work harder than most that I know and bring me to my knees every day, doubled over with laughter. I feel alive and full of possibilities and I can’t wait to get home so that I may pour my soul into the page.

By the time I’ve scraped the last of my dinner off my plate, that feeling is gone, replaced with an aching nothing. I am alone here and my words are not enough to keep me company. I’m already an episode into Roseanne and writing is too much work right now. Too much pressure to create something real and tangible, something that will make a difference in someone’s life, or put me in a better place financially. Too much room for failure, of being unable to live up to my own expectations of what a story should look like.
Writing cannot temper my loneliness. It won’t keep me warm at night when I’m unmovable, paralyzed by another unrequited love. It doesn’t travel with me to my mother’s house where another “father” figure has left for a third time. It doesn’t fill my heart when I awaken from a dream that featured my dead best friend.

Writing won’t do any of those things for me. But if I watch another episode of Roseanne or Full House then I can forget about everything, keep my heart silent and still while my brain sorts through jokes, canned laughter, and dynamic families that don’t exist.

I’ve used television as an escape for as long as I can remember. In fairness to me, I am actively passionate about the stories it weaves, the characters it creates, the worlds it spins. I don’t solely engage to get away from my problems, but it’s a habit I developed early on and one I have trouble breaking.

This disconnected feeling is not a new one for me – it’s something I’ve dealt with on and off since…well, I don’t know. But as an introvert, I thrive on time alone. Working in a newsroom is the precise amount of stimulation I need. And honestly, while I often lament the long, opposing schedules that my roommate and I work, I’m grateful to have the apartment to myself most nights.

So where is this discomfort – this hole – originating from?

I know that I am unhappy working a second job in retail, which makes it harder for me to catch up on adult things, like dishes, laundry, and cleaning, while still having time to do the things I want and need to do, like write. I’m terrible in retail – I hate customer service and I suck at small talk. I’m looking for freelance gigs so that I can leave, but they’re crazy competitive and hard to come by. So is this a contributing factor? Probably.

I’m still working through heartbreak. Is this a contributing factor? Most likely.

But I also just miss my friends. I have a couple here at home, but all the others are scattered throughout the country. Best friends in LA, San Francisco, and New York all with their own lives (rightfully so, obviously). Some of them have found blooming relationships or are debt-free (another stressor of mine – money) and I struggle to be fully happy for them when a large part of me is envious of the point they’re at in their lives.

Will I reach that point?

Will I always feel like I’m playing catch-up? Even now, it’s a somewhat ridiculous notion considering that I live on my own and work in a field that I love at 24. I’m not financially independent, may not reach that point for many years, but I hope that it’ll come someday. I’m doing just fine.

When did I become suffocated by the need to have it all figured out?

My friends are completely and 100% deserving of happiness and fulfillment and whatever else their generous hearts desire. So now I’m not just playing catch-up — I’m an asshole who’s playing catch-up.

This is the third night in a row that I’ve forced myself to turn off the television and write. I used to write every day, but that hasn’t been the case for a few months now. I’m desperate to get back to flexing those muscles daily, but it’s been difficult. But now I’m finding people to hold me accountable to my writing, so that I don’t wake up one day and look back on my life, wondering why the hell I never even completed a manuscript.


I wish that I could bottle elation and pop the cork off whenever I need a swig or two. If only everything were that easy.

2 comments:

  1. This has helped me through times like you are experiencing now... I thought it might help you too... http://therumpus.net/2010/08/dear-sugar-the-rumpus-advice-column-48-write-like-a-motherfucker/

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  2. So good Olivia. You made my heart hurt with this one. I'm glad to see the things you aren't saying outloud flowing onto the page. And ugh the game of catch up never ends.. we should probably just let it die, but sometimes that feels impossible. I also happened to read this in the middle of one of my own days of feeling achey nothing and knowing i should work on a project, but instead filling my time with busy things because writing just seems too difficult at the moment. We'll wrangle those words to a page yet. loves you friend.

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