I wish I could be a decent writer some day. Like those guys who have no trouble expressing what's on their minds or guys who can whip up something fabulous from merely sitting in their seats. No matter what I do, I feel like I'm either incapable or not motivated enough to write something good. The only time I ever write is when I feel like shit. I write so I can actually see in text all the things that make me miserable. Or I write so that my mind focuses on something else and is provided with a temporary escape. But the latter reason often backfires because I get to look over what I've written and it always turns out sounding corny or pretentious. I hate that. I also hate how if I'm ever going to become a decent writer, I'm going to have to read a shitload of books and become knowledgeable of all great texts. Where am I going to find time like that? I already have trouble trying to read the books for my courses, so how can I ever get myself to read leisurely? Vacation time doesn't work either because I'll be too busy telling myself that I need to have "fun" and reading just isn't my idea of "fun." Sucks. I'm never going to become a great writer. Mediocre at best, maybe I'll write something clever one day and give a friend a laugh, but beyond that, there's little hope.
What the hell am I doing? I get all stressed up about stupid school work - the work that I've refused to do in the past few days, constantly mounting and making me even more reluctant to begin. I get worried about the upcoming credit card bill, which I've unwisely allowed to accumulate to a sum that I will have great difficulty paying off. I get frustrated at not being able to find a desirable summer internship, possibly looking at the prospect of working demeaning temp jobs again. My nagging cold has prevented me from going to the gym, where at least I can take my mind off things. And I feel like all the "fun" stuff I've done recently are all so forgettable. See what I mean? I'm just a big complainer and to see that this is what drives my writing is pretty pathetic. It's worse than a xanga page, and it's more self-indulgent than a page full of posed self-portraits.
But then again, writing always allows for a resolution, or at least a speckle of hope that can make you feel better. I guess in this case, where I've demonstrated the incompetency of my writing and the annoying reasons for my unhappiness, to reason is the only way out. I have to tell myself first and foremost: shut the fuck up. Any time there is doubt or misery or even a feeling of "loneliness," it's just a type of insecurity. Insecure about my abilities, insecure about my established relationships with others, insecure about my future; insecurities are everywhere, and I've become plagued by them. Here's how it works: Get sleep. Resting can help, especially in times of poor health or emotional angst. Grit it out. Just do what you have to do and don't make it a big drama. Stop caring so much. Nobody is out to judge you and if some people actually do, fuck them. What do they know about you? And lastly, try writing something other than complaints.
Kant said something about striving for self-perfection and how that's a good thing. Well, we always refer to stuff like that, but in a very cliché manner. I guess I really have to look into what it takes to make myself "better." Better in terms of what? Better in what way? Fuck, I don't know the answer. But either way, I guess I should take note of two lessons learned in this exercise: complaining is for insecure losers and I'm still an incompetent writer.
