Much of my time is spent imagining the day when I’m a famous writer…Actually, just famous. I’m convinced I have the flare, the chutzpah.
I imagine that all my awkwardness and pathetic indiscretion will float away in the wake of some transcendent work, and no one will remember my disjointed speech, or a complete lack of social grace.
If I tell people I can write, maybe they’ll believe me. I trick them into believing a carefully crafted affectation. I affect the behavior of someone bound for glory without ever having really picked up a pen.
The reality of my ability rests in a half-baked scheme, which, in turn, is rooted in self-effacing irony. Why would I take it seriously?
If I tell people I can’t write–they encourage. Normal.
But I don’t write. I walk in anxious circles to avoid it until the last possible minute. If it comes out resembling English, I’ll congratulate myself for a job well done.
I tell them I’m a pressure writer. I never edit–just bleed it out at the last minute. Surely, a sign of genius. Definitely forgivable, at least.
I read the right books, but get distracted halfway through.
Conversations with me are difficult to follow, but I always say writing things down is easier so I can mask the idea that maybe, just maybe, I don’t have any real thoughts. Nothing that hasn’t been borrowed from a trendy millennial source. Or very old, dead men.
I pretend to like music, but haven’t really listened in years. My “best of” lists display a suspicious taste for popular obscure music, not the truly obscure indie gems.
What do these smokescreens rest on? Something that gnaws and embarrasses and wills to be forgotten.
I have to write now–Cleanly. Messily. Dangerously. Observantly. Unselfishly.
If not now, never.