Sometimes, I don’t know if I want to be a writer. Writing isn’t really fun.
I mean, think about book reports.
Did you like those? Did you like making them? I mean, maybe you did.
Or, maybe you just say you did.
Or, maybe I’m too cynical.
But, think about book reports.
Honestly?
Except it is kinda fun.
Because you can write down anything you want to
At any time of day or night.
How is that not of value?
To you or me?
You can write whatever your mind gives you. Write it down as you think it! That’s — all your truths. That’s — all your fictions. Two infinite landscapes, if you let them be.
Now, I’m starting to understand confidence. I’m not afraid to say that.
I can say that my mind isn’t small.
It isn’t the best … But it’s better.
Except sometimes it’s plagued by fucked fucked fucked anxiety and worry and spirals and spirals of possible bad outcomes for everything from what I’m eating, to what I’m doing at work, to what so-and-so might think of me holy shit — no.
(For real. I am not chill inside.)
(Never have been.)
Having that kind of mind gets in the way of a lot of things. That’s what sucks about anxiety.
It gets in the way.
It holds you dangling outside the present.
Now, I can’t pretend to know anything about Buddhism.
But I think it’s important to be present as much as possible.
My experience: Hanging on and looking forward are fantasies based on pictures in your head.
They are stories you are telling. To keep hope alive.
Or, throw you down a flight of stairs of pity.
And that’s fine.
That’s being human.
And in there, somewhere, are lessons to learn and goals to want.
Pay attention to them.
But, my mind isn’t too bad. It’s actually pretty good. I can feel that now.
Because I feel confident.
About writing, at least.
I feel confident that I am a good writer.
I have never felt this way.
Why?
I have always just assumed that I am less or wrong or a burden.
And in this frame of mind it’s hard to really do anything.
Writing well takes concentration. It also takes belief.
The writer must believe in what they say.
And, I don’t know that I ever did.
I guess, there was always a whisper of doubt
Wondering why bother. Why should you?
But like I said, my mind is good. More than that, I like using it.
It’s my most entertaining hobby.
Whatever the fuck I can create is in there. Whatever the fuck I can see.
Or hear.
Or smell.
Or touch.
I can be curious. I can look at what’s around me and just think about it.
From a small detail to a continent. Pick a topic and I can think about it.
Study it.
Understand it beyond facts.
Intuit something from this —
Or, what’s something I’m not facing? That thing of mine I haven’t dealt with.
Think about it.
Maybe I can think through it.
To study it
Beyond facts and
Intuit something from this.
But that takes confidence, too.
More than that, I should want to.
I should want to think. I should want to concentrate on the ideas that appeal to me.
There is no other reason. It is not to inflate who I am.
It is to focus on exactly what is.
And I do my best to do this.
I like what I have to offer.
I like how granular I can get.
I like my willingness to be myself.
For me, writing makes it all real. It makes my mind real, and you can then read my mind. And we can form something.
This is our shared power.
But, you know when writing sucks.
It’s when the words don’t hold your attention.
When it feels like reading a book.
And we don’t like book reports, remember?
I never did.
I don’t know what holds someone’s attention.
I don’t know you well enough to know.
But, I do know when my writing is at its best,
When I’m just writing the way I talk to myself, embracing theatrics, actually sharing my thoughts and feelings directly but with care and commitment.
That is when I am at my best.
In those small moments of realization.
Looking in the mirror.
Trusting those eyes shining back.
And, for that, I do want to be a writer.
To keep that picture there
And let it last.
— If only in my eyes.
That’s all I really want.
alec reads comics 