I was thinking today about how artists will screen capture a work-in-progress, but a writer won’t. I searched YouTube and only found one video in which someone had recorded themselves writing, and that video was from 2016. So, I thought, maybe I’ll do that. I don’t know if it’ll work out. I don’t know if it’s anything I’ll do more than once. I already feel more self-conscious about my writing, knowing that I’m recording it, than I usually do.
But, whatever. We’ll try it out. So, here’s the process of writing a blog for my website.
I don’t really feel like writing today. I haven’t felt like writing for most of my life. I identify as a writer, in my soul, but it’s not much more realistic than identifying as an astronaut — although I’ve definitely written more times than I’ve been to space.
I started on Paxil about 3 weeks ago and it’s going okay. I still hate my job but it’s like the hatred is on mute — just as intense, just quieter. Enough for me to be functional again, but not enough for me to actively want to be there. I hate that tomorrow is Monday.
Side effects so far: harder to concentrate, am much more docile in thoughts and in speech, and am in general, less anxious — which was the point. At work, I find myself less able to express myself clearly but now that I’ve been there for 7 months, it doesn’t really matter because 80% of my interactions are exactly the same.
On Friday, I was demoted and then re-promoted? I think? I was on a project that was just released on May 1st, and then on Friday was told I wouldn’t be on that project anymore but that I’ll be on an upcoming one. Nothing means anything without a raise. One of my coworkers who I trained with was “promoted” to “team leader” or whatever title they call being the point-person for the team, but without a raise. I’m glad I’ve been so flaky this past couple of months or else I might have been “promoted” again, too.
Anyway, I want to blame the medication, but the truth is that I haven’t written in 3 weeks because sometimes I go for three weeks without writing. Sometimes, I go longer. The weird thing is that I don’t know how to be a Writer but I can’t stop thinking of characters and stories. New ones, old ones, new takes on old ones — I get ideas constantly. But when it comes down to actually recording them in words that other people will see, I don’t wanna.
I had a really mean foster sister who used to make me write her, I guess, a weird version of love notes. Just talking about how awful I was and how great she was and how grateful I was that she put up with me. For years, I worried that she’d held on to those notes, and that someday I would out her as the abusive piece of shit she was and she would hold up the notes and be like, “Nuh-uh — see? She’s a liar! I have written proof that she worshiped me!”
And, I guess, since then, I’ve always had a fear that my own words would be held against me. My stories are safe in my head. Not only are they safe from that loss in translation that happens when you bring your inside thoughts, outside. But also, safe from criticism, safe from being accused of inadvertent homophobia, misogyny, or some other sin. Safe from being misunderstood, twisted into meaning something that it doesn’t mean to me, safe from exposing the secret parts of myself — my weaknesses, prejudices, stupidity.
I’m afraid, at my core, that I’m a bad person, and I’m afraid that my writing will reveal that. And, especially now, these are genies that don’t go back into the bottle. I mean, hell, I’m recording this right now. I’m not just writing it and about to publish it onto my website, but I’m also about to save it in a video format and I’m thinking about uploading it onto the internet.