69,000 Words

Dreams: The Realistic Kind

I’m my therapist’s favorite; this is my daily affirmation in the mirror. I am, her favorite, I think as hard as I can. I hope that I’m her favorite, I had even told her it was a dream of mine. She did think that was funny (thank you, thank you I’ll be here next week), but then she got all therapist about it and asked me what my dreams in life were. I prepared her for something so far, so outlandish, so stupidly incoherent. She nodded seriously, and again asked me what I wanted out of life right now; where I saw myself in ten years.

A transcript of the conversation follows:

“I want to have an adequate writing career where I still have to work part time to make ends meet, probably like copywriting or a remote assistant position. Like if I did a book tour, someone would show up, and maybe have some fan art of my characters out there, but I don’t need to be drowning in fans or reading slash fanfics about my own stuff. I’m like, way too demi for that. You know? Is that— a good metric? Oh and I want to have a patio, and Sterling would live forever.”

Elyse last month

“That’s your dream?”

[NAME REDACTED] last month

“Yeah”

Elyse, a cuck to their own anxiety

“Elyse that is an achievable goal…you can maybe, even, try a little harder maybe?”

[NAME REDACTED], hinting that, maybe just maybe Elyse had put their worth as a storyteller into a teeny, tiny box, maybe.

There’s this “Jaded Grind” that plagues many of us. I blame a certain other plague (whom shall remain nameless, I’m no shade-throwing girly) that uprooted most of us during what society told us should be our most formative years. I don’t know about you, but the world fundamentally changed from the one I was advertised when I started college. When I graduated, the needs of the world were different. My needs were different.

And just, a lot of shit’s been going on, man (non-gendered).Jobs and careers and breakups and personal growth. Autism and ADHD diagnoses. Haircuts and friendships and kitty cats and walks in the sun. Crying on the bathroom floor, sobbing on the floor of my bedroom. Anxiety pulsing in the back of my skull like it’s trying to escape. Moving, and moving, and moving again. Hoping and failing, losing faith and finding it in new forms.

And that’s just the world within me. The world outside is eternally more vast, and terrific, and horrific. And it feels small to even say, “I feel small.”

I’m just tired. I’m tired of being tired of doomscrolling about the inevitability of failure. Of the void I’m screaming into. I’ve spiraled and quit and screamed about it ever since I entered adulthood until I recently realized, I’m still screaming into the void. I’m just not screaming anything I give a fuck about. So I might as well show some self respect.

Right now, self-respect is looking a lot like kickstarting a discipline-creating blog with a 69,000 word celebration. Why? God (gestures vaguely up and around) knows.

But it’s time! It’s time for me to let myself write, it’s time to build up my friends and fellow creators. It’s time to listen to what the world needs now, and what it will need in its future. It’s time to read other people’s books and celebrate the small wins and the big failures. It’s time to speak up, to be confident, and to offer support to the people around me the only way I know how: through silly little stories that have a vague sense of bullshittery and mysticism. It’s time to be finite, and to enjoy the slow, steady cycle of decay and rebirth.

There is a time for everything, and, it is time for this now. I am launching this in honor of reaching 69,000 words in my current WIP. Can we all take a moment to say this together?

NICE!

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