How do I become a writer when I can’t even begin to scribble out all of the ideas that are in my head? I want to tell each person about how my TurdFace and I met then fell in love just by him kicking me in my ass on our first date. I want to rewrite about that morning I awoke one in a hospital, strapped to a bed and hardly realized who my mom was. Maybe I could even make an attempt at writing fiction; I have a wild imagination. I try to make myself sit down and scribble a few times during the week. I want to be a writer!
I have so many ideas from my Pinterest. Stupid Pinterest. How am I supposed to write about all that is in my head when I can’t even seem to motivate myself? I have my phone remind me roughly every three days to write, yet, when it goes off, I pick up no pen. I’m the same when it’s beeping at me to exercise. I cannot even think where to start. Where did all of these authors begin? Did they kick-off with the very first words in the paragraphs in their books that are sitting upon my shelf, or did it take them five years to write just one chapter?
It doesn’t even matter what I write about. No person will read what I have to say. No one seems listens to me, so would they ever even read what I write about? I could walk into a room, filled corner to corner, shoulder to shoulder with people; wriggle my way up onto the stage just to be ignored as I was shouting through a megaphone that there were free tacos at the bar. So why would anyone want to read about what I have been doing these past few months? I may be about to print all of these stories, maybe about a certain somebody, just so I can throw them away. The world may never know.
My life is still standing. It may all be in one piece, but why even continue to write? Does anyone, other than my mom, even read any of this? If you do; please raise your hand. I need to be acknowledged in some way. I need to not feel ignored. You may say that I’m not, but I often think that I am.
When I think plans were made between me and somebody, my excitement begins to build as that day approaches. I repeatedly glance at my phone, expecting a reminder or a mention of what we had spoken of a few weeks prior to this date. Then, when that day arrives and my phone is still empty, my messages ignored; my emotions of loneliness and aggravation begin to rise inside of me. My phone is empty. My life is empty. I am empty. I could write out all of emotions inside, to help ease out the sores; still no one would care.
I could be in a room with other people, talking to some of them about the excitement in my life. Suddenly, another person feels that what they have to say cannot wait a single second longer, so they must explode into the middle of my conversation, drawing all attention away from me. I can’t seem to get this attention back to me. When I try to, word over word, to take over; nothing. I can’t even try to begin a new conversation, from any individual person, when there are a few seconds of silence. I begin to speak, but then another person does and BAM! All attention is on them. So I just slink back into my dark hole. So how do I get people to notice a few words on my post-its?
I should do that one day. Just disappear, like my ideas for writing tend to do. If I had a better car, I would just hop into it to drive anywhere and everywhere without mumbling a word to anyone. If I had the ability to venture away from my pharmacy for more than 30 days, I would do this as well. Yet, as I am one of those individuals who cannot go a single day without taking their medication, I feel like my grandma. Well, in a way, I can, yet I would just be on the floor, arms and legs swinging around from side to side, my mind having no idea who any person in the room was. Not that I ever do, even now.
As a Stephanie, I am a person. I am spiritually intense. My name brings love and new stars into life. I do feel that I have more love for people or whoever’s, no matter how much they aggravate me. I do tend to have an exciting life, if I do say so myself.