I want to write something.
Something. Anything. I don’t care what.
No, I do care what. It has to be real. It has to be honest.
I’ve never had issues with that before.
Writing fantasy is easier: you don’t have to be blunt. You can hide your true meaning beneath layers and layers of allegory, leaving it to be discovered only by those who care enough to dig.
“No, no, no, this passage has nothing to do with me coming to terms with my childhood. It’s just a princess battling a dragon. That’s all it is.”
I like that so much better. I’ve never been good at being blunt. I hate confrontation.
But I’m not writing fantasy right now. I’m writing this. So what am I going to say?
I could talk about that boy who lives across the hall from me. The one who I talked to once and who I kind of thought was cute, but I’ve been avoiding him ever since and I don’t know why. That’s honest. I’m sure there’s someone out there who can relate to that.
But it isn’t a story. Stories need an ending, and I haven’t figured one out for that yet. I don’t know what makes me feel so uncomfortable around him now. I don’t know if it’s my anxiety, trying to rob me of yet another opportunity, or maybe it’s that fear of giving someone the power to hurt me that I’ve been holding onto all my life. Or maybe I just don’t like him as much as I hoped I would. Maybe it’s all as simple as that, and I’m just trying to make it more because I’m anxious about my anxiety.
That isn’t a story. I can’t write about that.
What else is there?
Well, I could write about how hard I’ve been trying to figure everything out lately. I need a job, I need to work on my writing career, I need to graduate this summer, I need to start making friends, I need to start saving money, I need a plan, I need, I need, I need.
No, I don’t want to write about that. When I so much as think about it, my thoughts jumble all together and I start getting scared again, start wondering what it is about all this that’s supposed to make it worth it. Best not to think about it: just shove it to the back of my mind and keep going through life, muffling the sounds of their screams with a jaunty tune and a smile.
There has to be something I can write about. Something relatable. Something real.
Something like the unceasing boredom I regard everything with lately, with the occasional exception of moments spent writing or worrying about –
No, too heavy.
No, there has to be something I write about. Something. Anything.