My life as a writer is inundated constantly by mental snapshots, a slideshow of potential genius that slowly morphs into something like a PowerPoint of existential dread. The words I usually dodge, unfortunately, are the juiciest bits, the recurring nightmares that gnaw at my soul every morning.The echoes of my unfulfilled past life make sure I’m physically and mentally off-kilter. Once, life was a buffet of possibilities. Now, it’s become more of a solemn sit-down dinner with regret as the main course.
Weeks can pass where my words play more hide than seek. Then, out of nowhere, sentence fragments fall like winter’s first snowflakes — they’re cute at first, then a bloody nuisance. Sometimes, song lyrics latch onto half-formed thoughts, like a leech with a soundtrack. Phrases rain down like hailstones, smacking me upside the head but rarely making full contact. When they do stick, however, they hide meanings even I, the supposed mastermind, can’t decode.
But then, very occasionally, I’ll capture elusive nuggets of wisdom that should be written, but remain stubbornly unborn. These moments of inspiration are like a thrilling movie trailer, full of promise, but often leading to a disappointing feature. When something noteworthy emerges, it’s a fleeting victory before the gnawing need for more inspiration kicks in once again.
My scattered inspirations often share a root, but it takes time and effort to uncover any hidden insights. Connecting the dots in my writing feels like solving a mystery where the solution is overrated. Words, sentences, and paragraphs do their job as long as they hint at something juicy. insights. The more concise they are, the better. Keeping interpretations open invites chaos, but it’s a delightful one worth diving into. Who knows what unexpected treasures lie in these unexplored mental nooks and crannies?
Opening lines and thesis statements often pop up in my spontaneous note-taking sessions, piling up like an avalanche of random brilliance. I expect a productive brainstorming session to help these ideas gel, but sometimes these words rebel against me, taking on unintended meanings. I should probably be more of a doer and less of an arbitrary thinker, but who has time for that? My words hint at concreteness, but their inspiration is as fleeting as a cheap romance novel’s plot twist.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m a fictional character in a derailed choose-your-own-adventure story. Maybe I’m a spiritual being bogged down by physical shortcomings and a chronic lack of energy. An enlightened soul might suggest I have invisible imbalances to correct, but perfection is overrated. Embracing life’s ebbs, flows, and chaotic shifts adds spice to the mix, even if it makes life a bit less tolerable in the moment.
My early writings mimicked the masters without developing a truly unique voice. The academic essays I wrote for often unclear purposes were feeble attempts at profound insights on simple topics. Would I be clearer at my expression if I’d been born into a different native language? Perhaps, but linguistic mastery is a barrier for many. Brilliant ideas often die unexpressed due to lack of communication skills; this is something I’m desperately working to not allow to happen to me
My writing has become a cocktail of inspiration and random factoids people mostly overlook. Maybe my highfalutin language alienates readers, but dumbing it down feels like deflating a soufflé. Trying to sound brilliant all the time is a drag, and aiming for simplicity feels like self-sabotage. Lesser minds love proving me wrong, regardless of my airtight arguments. This ignorance-induced intellectual frustration drives me into being a hermit, as I’ve wasted enough brainpower on humanity’s irrationality.
People marvel at my writing, but my oral skills are another story. I often say the opposite of what I mean or something completely different. My habit of rambling in speech sometimes infects my writing, especially when I use speech-to-text apps, but poring over even these notes often reveals accidental gems. For all my faltering, my words still feel inadequate. This inadequacy, this lack of weight to what I have to say, has held me back. But, why care if others deem my words insufficient? Great philosophers argue that our existence is enough; our task is to uncover our true essence, regardless of what others might think of us.
Only recently, I abandoned that pipe dream of writing a book for commercial success. I set a ridiculous goal in my youth to publish a book a month. But, now I focus on creating worthwhile content, commercial viability be damned. Despite the lack of a wider audience, I still churn out intriguing stuff. Much of it confounds even me initially, only revealing its meaning with time and perspective. Often, I dismiss my own work as rubbish, frustrated by its lack of clarity. Even as I strive to eliminate the BS, I occasionally write lines of pretty nothings. Still, writing for the sake of writing is practice, which becomes a hidden blessing over time.
My fascination with many subjects but long-term attraction to few makes me a generalist in a world obsessed with specialization. Refusing to niche down is seen as a weakness, barring me from meaningful occupations. I then question whether life has any deeper meaning or if we’re cosmic comic relief for divine beings.
The problem with humanity isn’t mere stupidity; it’s the proliferation of intellectual inferiority complexes. Convincing people they aren’t as dumb as they think is tough, though. Of course, humans have an infinite capacity for nonsense. Maybe we’re all doomed, but I won’t be the pessimist. Bucking trends is my specialty, after all. If I’m successful at anything, it’s being unconventional. I need to write with more conviction, as eventually, the weight of my words, as a body of work, might leave more of an impression than I think.
~ Amelia Desertsong
