You don’t know me. I know you don’t know me, because I don’t know me. Here I am, wide awake at some crazy ass time. I have this burning sensation to write something, anything. I have all these book ideas floating around in my mind. I just have to commit. I have to decide which idea I should take a chance on and do it. I had to try really hard not to write “just do it” in that last sentence. I hate me. I hate 1:30 crazy, mind won’t shut down, me.
I keep thinking I should take a writer’s workshop or writer’s bootcamp. Do they even have writer’s bootcamp? They should if they don’t, whoever they is. I hate that last sentence. Can I write anything that would even be remotely interesting to anyone besides my mother? (Sorry mom, I love you.) I read books and I get inspired. Slowly, the inspiration fades. Then, I have these freaking insomniac nights where my body is basically letting me know that it will continue to torture me if I don’t write something. So, here I am, writing something.
But, right now, something is nothing. Something is a way to ease my mind. Something will let me roll over and go to sleep. Something won’t fill those depths and crevices of my empty mess. Something won’t make me strive to work harder and do better on my next book. Something won’t make me or anyone else examine and come head-on with those life changing questions. Something has all possibilities of being nothing.
What does it take for something to be everything? Do I need a fancy new laptop? Is it my location? Do I need more schooling? Should I try a stress-relieving workout? I could people watch for material. I could read more books. Should I pick someone’s brain who has written a book? What do I need? What will make my something turn into everything?
I have no answers, just the burn to write. I hope that in the end, that will be enough.