Holy Crap, It’s Christmas.
It is so late…I’m so tired…why are my thoughts never lucid this late at night?
The real question is why I think my late-night mental ramblings will have the chance at lucidity when—obviously—there is no hope for them.
There’s nothing more boring than updating a blog. Who wants to read about my life? I haven’t done anything even remotely interesting. I’ve tipped the scales and am well into adulthood (21, baby!) with a love for dogs and a hatred of hot chocolate. On the Unique Scale, I rank pretty low.
There’s something to be said about hermits like Emily Dickinson and myself. While Emily stayed in her room and wrote depressing death metaphors and wore only white and refused to see anyone outside her family for years, she is now lauded as one of the greatest American poets of all time—which isn’t saying much since America is practically a baby compared to all the other countries in the world. Seriously, Great Britain has had poet laureates for like—what, a thousand years now? Not impressed, America.
But I digress.
I wouldn’t say I’m a hermit in the traditional sense. I leave my house fairly regularly. It’s hard to be a hermit in college. Actually, it’s hard to be a hermit in college and graduate. I could just never go to class and sit in bed all day, but then that would be a total waste of money. So I go to class. And I’m going to graduate soon. Yippee for me. Plus, I have friends. I have lots of friends. I’m a friendly person. I don’t radiate friendliness (especially around really really really stupid people) but I have an inviting personality which puts people at ease around me. So, no, I’m not a hermit. However, I have some very hermit tendencies. For example, I sleep as much as I can. I don’t take naps (because, honestly, who has time for that?) but if I could sleep in until noon every day I would. With that said, it doesn’t make me happy. Why is that? Why is it that my body doesn’t want to wake up but sleeping in that late ruins my day emotionally, physically, mentally, etc.? Why is life full of ironies and analogies and metaphors and suckiness?
I digress again. Why can’t I stay on track?
Why is it that when I write about myself I become very (is that a strong enough modifier?) narcissistic? Why do I use so many modifiers? Why do I ask so many pointless rhetorical questions?
Why don’t I have any answers. People ask me what I want to do with my life.
Write.
Well, what are you going to do with that? They ask.
Err…write. I thought I said that already.
But you can’t make a career out of that.
Uhh…sure you can. Tolkein, Shakespeare, Rowling.
But they’re one-offs. The chance that you’ll make it big is so slim it’s almost unfathomable.
Well geez, if Stephenie Meyer can do it, then I certainly can. For reals.
To which they have no response, because my argument is awesome! And they don’t care enough to argue anymore.
Why is it that writers get such a bad rap these days? Is it because of Stephenie Meyer and that lady who wrote Fifty Shades of Grey? Because those people are the 0.001 percent of writers, let alone all people. Plus, I don’t think Stephenie Meyer is all that bad. Obviously she’s doing something right to be this popular. Or modern readers are very immature and uncultured. Don’t get me wrong, she’s no Socrates.
But, then again, neither am I.
What’s so wrong about a dream of writing? I think writers are dogged so much because it’s the job that everyone wants but isn’t qualified for. Perhaps they don’t have the necessary skills to write at a level higher than a high-schooler. Or maybe they just don’t have the time because writing eats money and rarely makes it and people think “Ain’t no way in h*** this book is going to feed my family for the rest of my life.”
And then I think of authors like John Green, whose popular novel The Fault in Our Stars I’m currently reading. He’s written half a dozen novels and produces a popular web show and that seems to bring him enough money to travel and talk about his books which are, apparently, super fly. If he can do it and support a family, then I can certainly do it and contribute to the earnings and well-being of my own family. Not that I have a family yet, not in that sense. I’m just a hermit 21-year-old who sleeps in until noon when given the chance. Yum, desirable.
I think this is enough ramblings for one night. Or early morning. I’ll leave with one final rhetorical question:
Why do the creative juices flow at UNREASONABLE hours?
#2:42AMIsNotTheTimeToBeWriting
#GoToSleepStupid!
Picture:
gracespearfish.com
It is so late…I’m so tired…why are my thoughts never lucid this late at night?
The real question is why I think my late-night mental ramblings will have the chance at lucidity when—obviously—there is no hope for them.
There’s nothing more boring than updating a blog. Who wants to read about my life? I haven’t done anything even remotely interesting. I’ve tipped the scales and am well into adulthood (21, baby!) with a love for dogs and a hatred of hot chocolate. On the Unique Scale, I rank pretty low.
There’s something to be said about hermits like Emily Dickinson and myself. While Emily stayed in her room and wrote depressing death metaphors and wore only white and refused to see anyone outside her family for years, she is now lauded as one of the greatest American poets of all time—which isn’t saying much since America is practically a baby compared to all the other countries in the world. Seriously, Great Britain has had poet laureates for like—what, a thousand years now? Not impressed, America.
But I digress.
I wouldn’t say I’m a hermit in the traditional sense. I leave my house fairly regularly. It’s hard to be a hermit in college. Actually, it’s hard to be a hermit in college and graduate. I could just never go to class and sit in bed all day, but then that would be a total waste of money. So I go to class. And I’m going to graduate soon. Yippee for me. Plus, I have friends. I have lots of friends. I’m a friendly person. I don’t radiate friendliness (especially around really really really stupid people) but I have an inviting personality which puts people at ease around me. So, no, I’m not a hermit. However, I have some very hermit tendencies. For example, I sleep as much as I can. I don’t take naps (because, honestly, who has time for that?) but if I could sleep in until noon every day I would. With that said, it doesn’t make me happy. Why is that? Why is it that my body doesn’t want to wake up but sleeping in that late ruins my day emotionally, physically, mentally, etc.? Why is life full of ironies and analogies and metaphors and suckiness?
I digress again. Why can’t I stay on track?
Why is it that when I write about myself I become very (is that a strong enough modifier?) narcissistic? Why do I use so many modifiers? Why do I ask so many pointless rhetorical questions?
Why don’t I have any answers. People ask me what I want to do with my life.
Write.
Well, what are you going to do with that? They ask.
Err…write. I thought I said that already.
But you can’t make a career out of that.
Uhh…sure you can. Tolkein, Shakespeare, Rowling.
But they’re one-offs. The chance that you’ll make it big is so slim it’s almost unfathomable.
Well geez, if Stephenie Meyer can do it, then I certainly can. For reals.
To which they have no response, because my argument is awesome! And they don’t care enough to argue anymore.
Why is it that writers get such a bad rap these days? Is it because of Stephenie Meyer and that lady who wrote Fifty Shades of Grey? Because those people are the 0.001 percent of writers, let alone all people. Plus, I don’t think Stephenie Meyer is all that bad. Obviously she’s doing something right to be this popular. Or modern readers are very immature and uncultured. Don’t get me wrong, she’s no Socrates.
But, then again, neither am I.
What’s so wrong about a dream of writing? I think writers are dogged so much because it’s the job that everyone wants but isn’t qualified for. Perhaps they don’t have the necessary skills to write at a level higher than a high-schooler. Or maybe they just don’t have the time because writing eats money and rarely makes it and people think “Ain’t no way in h*** this book is going to feed my family for the rest of my life.”
And then I think of authors like John Green, whose popular novel The Fault in Our Stars I’m currently reading. He’s written half a dozen novels and produces a popular web show and that seems to bring him enough money to travel and talk about his books which are, apparently, super fly. If he can do it and support a family, then I can certainly do it and contribute to the earnings and well-being of my own family. Not that I have a family yet, not in that sense. I’m just a hermit 21-year-old who sleeps in until noon when given the chance. Yum, desirable.
I think this is enough ramblings for one night. Or early morning. I’ll leave with one final rhetorical question:
Why do the creative juices flow at UNREASONABLE hours?
#2:42AMIsNotTheTimeToBeWriting
#GoToSleepStupid!
Picture:
gracespearfish.com