Here's the thing: I have a love-hate relationship with writing. I wouldn't be who I am without it, I wouldn't be able to comprehend the world around me or be able to put my thoughts and feelings into sentences.
But sometimes, writing is absolutely the last thing on earth I want to do. If I was given the choice of sitting in a room with Tom Cruise for four hours or writing an essay for school, I would probably sit and be forced to talk about Top Gun and the classic hit Rock of Ages until I screamed. Sometimes, I would rather just make pterodactyl noises and eat Cheez-itz on the couch, or be half singing, half screaming along to Moana instead of worrying about the upcoming projects and deadlines I have to meet.
I complain about writing a fair amount of the time. I whine that I have articles to write, or poems to submit, or assignments to complete, basically whenever I have to use words that aren't in a Tweet or a clever Snapchat. Writer's block is a bitch, and it makes me hate the fact that I can't just be a lawyer or a fireman or a really talented ballroom dancer.
But that's the thing: I can't. Not that I couldn't, except for the fact that I have no desire to take the bar exam, that I'm afraid of my lungs being filled with ash and smoke, or that I have the dancing skills of an elderly white man at an Indigo Girls concert, but that I can't. I can't imagine doing anything but writing, and the desire to make a name for myself and to actually do something with my writing fuels this crazy fire inside of me. The stress I put on myself and the thought of not succeeding in this field is the best combatant to write's block, as I am essentially forcing myself, kicking and screaming, to make a bunch of words appear on a screen.
What matters in the end is that I'm trying. I really couldn't care less if my stuff is being read, or if it's lengthy, or- who am I kidding, of course I care. The most important thing though is that I'm actually doing it. I'm actually sitting down and forcing myself to write, to make something appear on paper or on a screen out of the random thoughts in my head. It doesn't have to make sense, or sound good, or even be publishable, it just matters that I'm doing something at least.
So I guess I'm stuck with writing for the long haul. I'm not saying it doesn't suck, because holy hell, it sucks sometimes, but I think that the power of words is a pretty cool one. I'm not saying that I'm gonna be the next Lin-Manuel Miranda, or J.K. Rowling, or even the next big fanfic writer on Tumblr, but I am the next me out there, as cliche as that sounds. I'm gonna keep forcing myself, kicking and screaming, to write, because, as plain and simple as this sounds, I wouldn't be me without writing.
The hair will go up, the reading glasses will go on, and off I will go.
