International Writers Magazine: Life Stories:
felt the need to write and re-write and write again. The feeling
is getting stronger. I think I'm almost ready to move forward with
my own, personal story/stories. Is anyone out there, though? Is
anyone listening? Am I ever going to get paid for this? Am I destined
to be broke, jobless/without a career, boyfriend, life, love, friends
other than the ones that I made in high school, sitting, watching
television and eating potato chips?
Am I being sarcastic
or am I serious? Will it take me as long to build up an audience as
it will to finish my first novel? Will my past come back to haunt me?
A decision that I made in the heat-of-the-moment that paralyze my voice?
I ponder these questions as I wonder how to balance the responsibilities
of life with my burning need to write. I've heard people, particularly
other writers say that you are not a true writer, unless you write everyday.
Well, I've been writing everyday but just not on my novel. Instead,
this is my fourth attempt at trying to start a blog. Only, I'm using
my real name now, forcing myself not to hide.
Will it work out at this one? I like the newness of redroom.com. I like
the red, white and black colors. It reminds me of a newspaper, so I
take myself more seriously. I'm surrounded in a community of other writers
and there are no profile counts that serve to make me feel bad in my
vain attempts at building a large audience. Cause that shit comes later,
you know? I guess this is the closest that I'm ever going to come to
working at a newspaper. But even those days, of job security, are a
So, I write and wait for my turn. The day when my mother will finally
be proud of me. Now, I'm starting to move into dangerous territory.
How do we find that balance between privacy and confessional writing,
which I love. Will the world ever give me credit? Will anyone ever care?
Will anyone be reading me or will they say, 'Been there, done that.
Girl, that idea of yours was featured in The Huffington Post
just last week? Didn't you get the news flash?'
I'm 29 years old and still a wallflower. I haven't figured "it"
out yet. My brother is younger than me and more successful. I'm the
struggling writer and he's the corporate genius, the one that's smart
enough only to wear blue jeans on Fridays. Me, I'm a tee-shirt kind
of gal. That's me and no one could change that and I wouldn't want them
too. I keep waiting for the day when I'm going to scream out but I'm
past that stage. I'm over a lot of things, fatigued that I'm black and
have no right to complain.
(And where is my check for this page?)
I feel like some obscure character that Judy Blume forgot to mention
in Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret. But change the name
to mine, Piper. Some people think it's dangerous for a writer to admit
that they are this vulnerable but these days, baring all is how real
women get attention, you know? Problem is, my breasts are a ten to me
but what about the rest of the world? Are they graded on circumference
or size? It's shocking but writers nowadays are having to write blogs,
feature their best pictures on amazon.com and even the dreaded myspace
pages just to compete.
So many choices, so little time . . . What's a girl to do? I mean, the
days of the mystery writer are over.
The cost of gasoline right now has severly dampened my social life.
Trips to the other side of town to visit friends are seen as vacations
from everyday life. So, in the meantime, I write and every day, I get
closer to finishing my first novel. I get closer to actually accomplishing
something with my life. I move closer toward feeling some real dignity
in my life. As I go back and try to correct my mistakes, I find that
I make bigger ones before it finally hits me and then I understand that
I'm not supposed to.
A few months ago, I was on the path to the dark side, a term that my
neighbor told me and that the media seems to be having a heyday with.
But for them, it's all about ratings, shock value and pushing forward.
Those words have meaning in my life, though. I was on the road, searching
for my ruby red slippers but when I found them, they were without the
glitter. They were just as glitter is described in Jane Eyre without
the gold backing. In fact, I should be just be grateful to be alive.
Maybe I don't understand the world yet. To me, I see the world as a
pot of dying flowers. Someone must breathe on them but they can't because
they are suffocating. And I was suffocating. Searching for the air to
breathe in and surround myself with. But the air was already there,
otherwise, I might not be alive and I had to learn to laugh again. I
had to learn to brush things off, which isn't easy for any creative
type or artist to do. We live through our work and then send it off
into the world. But sometimes, things are not finished. There is more
to be said and I think that's why I didn't write for three months because
I needed to go into my own little cocoon and re-emerge as a butterfly
and here I am, reintroducing myself to the world. Or moving away from
the wilderness, not knowing how long it will last but moving toward
something else anyway.
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