I’m currently a little more than three quarters of the way through Felicia Day’s book “You’re Never Weird On the Internet (Almost)” . Now, I could be a normal person and wait until I finish the book to talk about it. But meh, I’ve never been normal.
Now I knew who she was before I read the book, I had seen her in stuff, she’s adorable and quirky and I liked that she was a geeky chick, etc. But, because I’m not a gamer, I didn’t know much about THAT part of it all. I hadn’t seen The Guild, which I just started watching (because of the book and because Curtis was really into online gaming before he knew me and told me it was worth checking out). ANYWAY (yes, I have a point), you know how you see or read about famous people and you are like “oh I wish we were friends!”? (or is that just me?) Anyway…That. But since that’s kind of creepy, I’ll just say, she seems like an incredibly sweet, kind, and wonderful person that deserves all of these good things that have come her way.
But, I digress. The reason I mention this at all, is because in the book, she talks about her struggles with writing and how she longed to create but found the process agonizing. And I found myself sobbing a little because I miss my creativity. I miss writing. So much. Throwing out excuses isn’t why I am writing now. I want to understand it though. It always seemed like something that was easy for me, words were my solace–reading them, writing them, finding comfort in them. I have been told I was a decent writer since I was young. I spent my entire college career learning how to write every which way available to a Journalism major/English minor and while tastes run the gamut, I know I can cohesively put together words to form thoughts, stories, poems, articles, papers, (and now) tweets, Facebook updates, Instagram posts, etc. Sure, I am a sucker for ellipses, commas and parenthesis (in case you haven’t noticed), but I don’t think I abuse the privilege. Maybe. Whatever.
I used to want to write the great American novel (ahh, the folly of youth). I wanted to write something that would make me rich! It would make everyone fall over themselves to declare me a brilliant writer. Now? I just want to write something that someone wants to read. Maybe something that means something to someone. Something that a weird person like me can’t even finish before she stops to write about how awesome it is because it made her think about her own creativity (but, ya know, they will finish it, eventually–like I will). Even if it is just one (weird) person. Or not. But let’s face it, they will probably be just a little weird (psst: that’s a compliment).
I see my girls and they are following in my footsteps, which I find amazing. There are dozens of little notebooks scattered all over my house with their drawings, writings, comics (they are REALLY into creating comics–especially Olivia) and I see that I need to get back to it. Find that creative spirit that they have, the one that makes them unafraid to just throw it down on paper. No matter what. Somehow. For them, and for me. I mean, shouldn’t that be why I write anyway?
At the end of the day, I won’t please everyone. Which, as a people pleaser is probably some of my hang-up. But, inevitably, someone will read something I write and declare me a horrible, horrible writer and sit back and say either A) It will never be published or B) They can’t believe I got something published. The likelihood of it getting to that point is so slim, I realize that (have you seen how many books are in this world? I’m a librarian…there are lots). BUT. The likelihood of it happening without writing anything is nil. So, a slim chance is still a chance. And I’m stubborn. When I’m on my game? I’m stubborn as hell. Sophia got that shit honest.