It’s Snowing in Atlanta
It has taken me a long time to realize just how little I’ve done in life. I am 24 and I have no degree, no career or even good credit. But of all these things it pains me more to see my paltry pile of creativity. I sometimes fancy that I actually am a writer, yet the evidence doesn’t match my theory. A few good stories among lots of junk, unfinished drafts that really could go somewhere, and lots and lots of planning.
I sometimes feel that I am not disturbed enough, or beaten enough, to be a good writer. Just look at the great writers throughout history: abused, alcoholics, refugees, madmen. I am none of those things. My life has been pretty good, I have no psychological or chemical abuse problems, so it worries me that I might be able to write something profound and moving. Isn’t that silly? And right now, with no money and in need of work, I find myself too depressed to write! How ironic.
This is why I need to go back to school. I am not so arrogant that I think I am anything but a student of writing. I need practice and study and some goddamn homework. I need someone to say “Write me a story about pink elephants saving the world from rampant vacuum cleaners and have it to me by Friday OR ELSE!” I need some structure. If anyone reading this would like to boss me around, just let me know!