You know you're in trouble when you start searching for how to write the story you want to write. The biggest question you start asking yourself is why? ‘Why am I doing this? What am I afraid of? Am I afraid of looking for that perfect angle to make it big?’ Then you start to feel guilty because that is not the point of writing. Writing isn’t about glory, money or acceptance. It's telling your story; real, imaginary, whatever. So ends the search. You sit, staring at a blank screen while thoughts of the perfect title roam through the imagination rooms of your mind. ‘Oh that's a good one, but is it real story worthy. No that’s been done before. Ugh, no one would read that.’
This loud conversation happens silently in your head while the blank white screen pulses like one of those annoying neon signs in a bad detective story. You can hear it. That buzz, the Bogart like narration. Slowly your hands slip from the keys, on to your lap. The bad accent creeps louder into your mind and you drop your head. As you wish for the perfect idea to spark and the voice to stop, your hands come up. Your head rests softly between the fingers that so desperately want to be producing the next greatest literature work since Shakespeare.
Now there's a thought maybe you can channel Shakespeare. You quickly try to think of 21st century ways to metaphorically explain love, tragedy, and dysfunctional royal families. Except you can't, because even you have a hard time making it through a soliloquy without scratching your head and getting mentally tongue tied. You think Shakespeare wasn't the greatest writer and purveyor of the human condition. He was one big, fat, funny guy; yeah, the class clown. He's up in heaven right now laughing his…, well you get the picture. Then you begin to think, ‘Great! I'm trashing Shakespeare. What is wrong with me?’
You want to tell a story and have the whole world like it, heck just have Oprah like it. It's easy, right? In big giant red letters your brain flashes NO!!!! That’s when you turn off the insincere screen and wander into to the kitchen for that midnight snack because you enjoy feeling sorry for yourself on two levels; mentally and physically. It’s a complete package; Yin n yang. Let the depression begin.
It's better this way, consuming you in the middle of the night where no one will see it. You are keeping your family safe from seeing you suffer. You’re making their lives better by starting to feel depressed now because in the morning you know it will be easier to fake. The days are when life is so busy for anyone to notice how you truly feel. You don't real notice others emotional state either. You sigh in relief at saving yourself and your family from being dragged into to an emotional hurricane. As that thought leaves your head, the last of the gallon of ice cream is gone; you stumble in the direction of your room, ready to sleep off your sugar rush of depression. You hope your dreams are filled with weird, happy thoughts and not the ones that carry the shadow of what has just transpired.
It's midnight again. You’re sitting in front of your computer, browsing for nothing. You are just trying to avoid that need to write something awesome. Seconds tick by as slowly as ideas flood your crammed thoughts. They are useless thoughts really. They are all self deprecating. They make you feel bad that you can't write anything or they take you down memory lane to the time you acted stupid. ‘Stupid!’ you say out loud like you were sucked back in time and the scene is playing out again. You know you’re not stupid. Yet you feel that way right now about something that happened a long time ago. Nobody cares about that anymore including you, so how can you feel stupid. But you do, so you have to make yourself feel better. You give yourself a motivational talking to. Then you breathe that sigh of relief that comes with the satisfaction of self awareness. Yes,’ I'm a coping person,’ you say in a proud vain voice. Then you think, ‘Is that my story? Is that my angle?’ ‘Pfft... No...!’
Nobody wants to read about your normal boring life. It’s too ordinary. That moment of triumphant thought quickly turns on its head and begins to frown. Your shoulder slumps giving you the hunchback look of despair. ‘Oh, no, not walking down ice cream lane of despair, again.’ Let the useless browsing begin with renewed vigor. This form a depression induced high won’t keep kicking you twenty years from now. As the unimportant searching draws out the time, you start to feel numb… you forget your quest for the perfect story and you are happy in social network bliss. When you finally look up, the calming blue glow of 2:05am jars your mind to tiredness. You close down your connection to the world with a few sounds of click. As you slide between the blanket and sheet, you yawn with content happiness. You feel accomplished about all the witty comments made to friends and the profound personal quip you left on your slice of web suburbia.
