Eight years ago, I’d have these nights where I couldn’t sleep, so I’d roll out of bed, huddle in front of the keyboard and write.
What I wrote probably wasn’t that great. Twentysomething angst plus crap job plus living solo equals tortured prose. Every time I think about putting everything I’ve written online into this site, I cringe. It’s like looking at those college pictures where I have a mullet and pegged pants: just ’cause you thought it was cool once doesn’t mean it was ever cool.
But I wrote, at least. I got used to the sound of my writing voice, and I began wiring my brain to run its firings down my fingers onto the keys. Some of the stuff I wrote was good because it was honest. That was how I felt; maybe some of you felt the same way, too.
But now? Now it’s a pain in the ass. Now I’m pissed that because I had some green tea with lunch, my brain is still spinning. Now I want to curl up with the wife and sleep. Instead, I’m pondering how to take over NewsCorp, just so I can put Futurama and Firefly back on the air until I’ve drained Matt Groening and Joss Whedon of all of their precious creative fluids.
Really. Goddamn green tea…
But I still write. And I still try to be honest. And I’m glad you’re still reading.