There are so many thoughts in my brain right now, tripping over each other, colliding into each other, grabbing and pulling at each other, fighting, rioting and screaming.
The pressure to write something on blackbyrd has crushed me for the past three years, once writing got hard. I tried to write something over the past two weeks. Then I tried again. I tried another time. I saved all three posts as drafts. Maybe I’ll open them up again someday and finish them. Maybe not. My struggles stem from credibility. The more credible one becomes as a writer, the harder it is to write and write well. I can’t produce crap; I can’t have any spelling or grammatical errors. One slip up and I’m a hypocrite. What a filthy word.
Until I really complete those drafts, here are brief synopses of each one:
Draft one: With the new strategic communications major here at St. Bonaventure University, plenty of my colleagues have begun writing on their own blogs. I know for a fact a fair few of them get more viewers in a day than I could ever begin to dream of. Thus, sessions of Emily doubting herself and her abilities are born. Does my writing suck? Am I boring? Should I jump on the bandwagon and promote myself more? Should I write about more interesting topics? Does anything I write even matter?
The last one. Does anything even matter. That’s what hurts the most.
Overwhelmed cannot even capture the emotions I feel when I think about how big the world is and how small I am. Fourteen-year-old Emily didn’t care when she registered this blog as “blackbyrd,” named after her obsession with The Beatles. She sat in her tiny corner of the world, typing away on her mother’s iMac. She didn’t even have a Facebook or a Twitter yet. Self promotion was seemingly nonexistent. She wrote about stupid shit. If she wanted to write it, she wrote it. And she didn’t care how many viewers she got; that’s not the reason why she wrote. She even stopped tagging posts during high school because –– get this –– she didn’t want people reading. Imagine that.
still isn’t shouldn’t be my reason for writing.
There. That feels good to get off my chest.
Draft two: I love Miley Cyrus. I was her for Halloween last fall and I’d be her again in a heartbeat. What a public relations genius. I can’t imagine how hard it is to be her.
Okay, I lied. There is no Draft three, but here’s what it would have been: life is too short to let friends fall by the wayside. Sorry about the cliché.
I’m tired of friends fighting for stupid reasons. I’m tired of only hanging out with one or the other. Kiss and make up… please?
Finally, if there had been a Draft four, it probably would have been something about receiving constructive criticism and accepting it with grace instead of with anger and spite. But that’s just me.
Maybe the thoughts in my brain will quiet down enough now so I can sleep tonight. Such wishful thinking.