I’ve given myself the directive (the word “goal” is way too positive) of writing something – in some form, somewhere – every day until January 14th when I turn 30 years old and inevitably morph into a rotting pumpkin of disappointment.
This should be an easy task. I currently “work” from home and have no major social or financial obligations, so the ever-elusive asset of TIME is fully available to me (in all its condescending glory). No alarm clock, no meetings, no office, no distractions.
There’s just been this one problem: everything’s fine.
For the past five months I’ve woken up when I wanted to, decided what pattern of tights I was most in the mood to wear, opened up my drawer of bras just to laugh in their faces, and then sat down in front of the computer with a cup of coffee, ready to face a new day of… whatever. My days are plagued with questions such as:
What podcast should I listen to while I spend 45 minutes doing my makeup for no reason?
Should I go back to school?
What would I even take in school?
Are 30 year olds allowed in schools?
This self-imposed sabbatical was designed to provide me with this exact scenario: a fresh field of boundless opportunity and months on end to plough through it. I could write a few new poems, I thought! I could try and get an essay or two published on my favourite blogs! Begin dabbling in fiction or scriptwriting!
I’ve written nothing. Not a single thing, besides text messages to my boyfriend about what I’ve been reading on the internet that day and a few emails to friends about my new home on the west coast, complete with ambiguous (albeit creative) answers to the omnipresent question: “so what are you going to do for work?”
I’ve written nothing because everything’s fine right now. I’m totally happy and when I’m happy, I’ve always felt like I’m just so, so boring. Unless someone is commanding me to write something very specific, anything I’ve ever tried to write on my own accord while happy has been tediously uninspiring and not even remotely interesting. PRIVILEGED HAPPY PEOPLE PROBLEMS.
For as long as I can remember, this has been an immovable roadblock between myself and writing, as I know it is for many “creative” types. Rather than some noir affliction of a tortured artist, however, it’s just one of my many excuses for a horrendous lack of self-discipline. Maybe it’s the Wisdom of 30 sneaking up on me, but I’ve realized now that I’ve been a one-trick pony, fuelling self-destructive behaviour patterns in order to remain ~iNsPiReD~ because I haven’t quite learned how to feel alive without hurting myself or those around me and I’ve simply been too lazy to push myself into writing about things other than my own self-made problems.
Some cycles are meant to be broken, and I realize that this one will furiously spin me into a ball of 30-something-year-old-resentment-and-predictability if I don’t smash (or write) my way out of it.
I’m happy and I still have lots of cool things to say. Let’s get to it.