I could probably let the title of this post speak for itself—adhere to the modus operandi of Tony Robbins drones and “make moves in silence,” or whatever pseudo-motivational drivel is being pushed via memes of roaring lions on accounts like @millionaire.process.
But I didn’t join a pyramid scheme in college, so that’s not really my style. I’d rather announce my creative endeavors at DMX volume. Stop, drop, shut ’em down, open up shop on anyone kind enough to read.
I’ve been having a lot of fun this year creatively. It’s the first time I’ve addressed this side of myself as primary, rather than some “if there’s time,” back burner piece of the whole. The uninhibited joy of coming into your own isn’t as hackneyed as it sounds.
I’ve known I’ve wanted to write books for a very long time. I’d made claims emptier than my bank account (read the blog name) that it’d happen, but found myself overwhelmed to tears any time I tried to start. It wasn’t unlike taking my first Spanish class after years of speaking French: realizing everything you don’t know and the habits you’ll have to break to embark on this new journey can thwart any chance at success if you aren’t diligent. And boy was I ever not diligent about Spanish.
I found a renewed sense of purpose this spring that told me this wasn’t out of reach. That all I needed was a clear vision and audience to bring life to the dormant stories hiding in the Notes section of my phone and Mead Five Star notebooks in my drawers. (Whatever you do, do not fucking touch the blue one.)
So I started it. And I’m doing it. I made a goal for myself of writing 500 words a day, five days a week for as long as it takes to get this thing complete. I have a tendency to be lofty, so I knew it would take a doable structure to get from point A to point B. Side note: realistic goal setting is maybe the best habit I’ve implemented recently. You gain serious mobility by chipping away at things gradually compared to the pressure of undivided execution. Novel, I know.
I guess this is where I tell you a little about the book. Get you on the edge of your seat for the mediocre anthology of an absolute nobody from the middle of absolute nowhere who has done absolutely nothing of significance. We stan a self-deprecating kween, no?
Well, my book’s kind of like that actually. 25ish essays chronicling my life experiences and observations—the beautiful and the grotesque, the original and the banal, the devastating and the hopeful. Writing it has been equal parts jovial and depressing, but I was prepared for that.
I’ve spent the better part of my life berating myself for being average. Didn’t go to a good school. Didn’t get a sick job. Didn’t come from money. Didn’t win this writing contest or that one. But I can tell a mean story that makes you feel less alone, or tackle a ubiquitous experience in an original way. At least I’ve been told.
Technology gives us the false impression that we’re more connected than ever when frankly, we couldn’t be further from each other. I’m doing my part to bridge that gap the only way I know how: the written word. I’ll take you from my prideful moments of embracing my sexuality to the deep shame of a 6-hour screen time notification. I have nothing to hide. And maybe reading my accounts will compel you to take off the mask yourself.
Anywho, sorry I missed your thing. I’m writing a book. And I hope you’ll consider reading it.