Alright Sara. You can do this. Just write. Just type it out. Just put what you’re feeling onto paper. Just get started. You can do that, right?
Just write. Just start something.
The thought buzzes at the front of my head, trying to get me to do something. Anything. Schoolwork, short stories, schoolwork, an article, poems, schoolwork, ANYTHING.
This is why you aren’t going to be a writer.
That voice whispers when I wake up at 5:15 a.m. with all of my lights on and I look at Percy lounging on my table across the room because I’ve fallen asleep on top of my covers with my laptop beside me and I realize I let another day of college slip through my fingers and I have nothing to show for it.
Why can’t you just do something? Anything?
I don’t know. I try and I don’t try. I wait for inspiration to hit me and once I have inspiration I feel like no matter what I write it won’t be any good.
You’ll be happier if you finish something.
But whatever you finish won’t be good.
It has been almost a year since I wrote something. Not just here – in class too. The things I do write, I turn in ashamed because they aren’t worth the kilobytes they take up. I say I’ll try again next week. The same thing happens. I try again. The same thing. Over and over and over and over again until all of my feelings are bottled up and I’m behind in schoolwork and everything just feels like it’s suffocating me.
I told people I wasn’t writing because I was happy. But that wasn’t true. I wasn’t writing because I didn’t want to.
I don’t particularly think people need me to write (besides my teachers – they need me to write so I don’t have a failing grade and they don’t have to explain to the journalism school why).
I think I just need to.
I used to think I was good with change. But maybe that only works when you’re in high school in a town where you don’t fit in, and the world feels vast and exciting.
I still think the world is vast. It feels bigger than ever and I’m scared of getting lost in the alleyways of a never-ending city. I’m scared of living in a pocket of the universe where the people I love aren’t a few doors down and I have to start all over, again. I’m scared of the “We should catch up when I visit *town I eventually move to*” or the “I guess we’ll see each other at homecoming” and the scariest of them all, “I didn’t realize you still lived here, what have you been up to?”
A lot has changed in the world I built for myself in Chapel Hill. I decided Greek life wasn’t for me. I declared a second major and a minor so I would never have to worry about filler classes or “job security” because hey, I have two majors and a minor and that counts for something, right? I fell in love and it didn’t work out. I don’t talk to people I used to. I live alone in a little room on the outskirts of campus with my cat and I try to prepare myself for the grand exodus, the impending Mother’s Day where I’ll need to wear a white dress and a blue gown and afterward everything I worked for from the time I entered elementary school will be summed up on a piece of paper and I will be left, suspended in the universe.
Maybe this is why I didn’t write. Maybe I’m scared of my impending future, of getting a job where I’ll work 9-5 doing something I don’t particularly like because “no one lands their dream job out of college.” Maybe I’m starting to believe people when they tell me no one cares about journalism or books or anything of the sort anymore. Maybe I just feel aimless.
I want to write more. I want to write things that make people feel something, whether it be stories from my own life or stories of other people. But I guess the only way to do that is to actually type out the words.