It is a sad day when your friendly neighborhood writer writes about writing. It means they can’t think of anything else to write about. It is up there with Romeo and Juliet level tragedies. Trust. Anyway, without further ado: my confessions of being a writer and other fun adventures.

My dearest fans, enemies, family members and snoops:

These confessions comes too late, for I am already doomed. Mother, I’m sorry that I haven’t become a scientist, but there’s still time for me to ditch my disturbing and petulant dreams of becoming a writer. I am only 23 after all. How is it that I feel both too young and too old for this profession? The more I worry that time is slipping away, the faster time goes by. I worry that maybe I could’ve become somebody if only I had done less drugs and started the chase a few years earlier. I regret that I never gave much attention to my interest in writing until recently. 

As I recall, when I was about 10 or maybe 12, I began writing a story about alien kids who go on outer space adventures. I drew detailed pictures of the characters. One had an all pink look, one had an all green look and so on, nothing very interesting to you now. Anyway, I don’t know why I never finished the project. It was to become the first unfinished project of many. I hold some resentment towards my parents because I need someone (other than myself) to blame for not chasing my dreams earlier. I think the real perpetrator is fear of failure. Or plain old laziness. Or my near-decade-long study of how to successfully chase boys. Who knows.  

My twenties are a strange time. It dawned upon me recently (like last week recently) that I don’t have to answer to anyone but myself. So I think I’m a late bloomer in this department. I never really rebelled outwardly as a child. Instead, I learned to hide. I hid myself so well that I’m still trying to find some parts of me. If only I had known what hiding would do in the long run. I was just so eager to please others that I forgot about myself. I was constantly living in somebody else’s world. 

For example, a boy I liked was into skateboarding, so I learned to skateboard (and broke my arm the very first day, a feat which I bragged about incessantly). Another boy I liked listened to hardcore music, so I began to listen to hardcore music. And so on. The goal was always to receive coolness points. I never thought of like, I don’t know, self-discovery. I molded myself into what I imagined to be the perfect little girl. My survival tactic was to turn into a creature that could be loved by anyone, just in case one day I needed love from somebody. My primary technique to achieve lovability was always diversity. 

I would be as many things as possible all at once: a skater girl, a bookish nerd, a religious freak, a sexy freak, a glamour girl, a horse girl, a sports girl, a poor starving artist girl, a biker chic, a groupie. Somewhere in there was myself, buried underneath a mountain of poses. If I found someone that I wanted to impress (like a parent, a boy, a teacher, you name it), I would enter all the data points – beep boop – and then run a program that best mirrors their interests. So I’m a “pick me” girl who’s terrified of not being picked. Or a sociopath. Or possibly on the autism spectrum. Or a mix. *Sigh*. 

I know that you’re gonna tell me to get evaluated by a professional so you don’t have to read my self-diagnoses anymore. The truth is I’m scared to know the answer. What if I am a sociopath? This is a fear of mine. 

We’re a generation obsessed with pinning down our own minds. Psychology is the new astrology. 

Anyway, I feel as though I just awoke in a brand new world: my own world. I awoke suddenly, bare, and stripped of any knowledge of how to live. So I have to begin again. Brand new. Who the F*** am I and what am I supposed to do? Not what would others like me to do, but really, truly, what am I supposed to do? 

This is what I came up with.