Anne’s Introduction Page

Maybe it’s the cold, maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t been able to feel my god damn fingers in two months, but I really don’t think so. Every time I touch a pen to paper lately, some type of sentimental bullshit pours from me that A.) doesn’t make any sense, B.) doesn’t matter to anyone including myself and C.) isn’t even relevant. “Just write what you feel” people always say. Yeah, thanks so much. I am always feeling a million different things and nothing at all at the same time. Right now, I feel happy because I’m listening to great music, in a warm room, and I know the man I love loves me back. Right now, I feel angry because I keep breaking my back for this minimum wage job, but I still can’t make rent on time. Right now, I’m confused as to why boys throwing balls at other boys is such a big fucking deal in America. Also: I have no idea what I’m feeling but there are always certain emotions I can’t pinpoint. Like a word that’s on the tip of my tongue but I can’t really figure out what it is, or why I need to say it so bad. To me, descriptive words have either always sounded too fake or too vague. If you can’t clearly see that I’m happy or sad, telling you certainly will not change that fact.
The fact that this journal is called Writers’ Block is the biggest irony of all. I agreed to write for this and be a very active member and over six months later, this is my first post. And it’s still pretty shitty. When the idea was first brought up to me of writing in this blog I was jobless, living in the everlasting party that was The Blueberry House. Everyone around me was so fresh and new, and it felt endless and magical. At the first meeting I attended, it was in my dirty ass living room, outside the dirty ass kitchen (that was indeed infested with many creatures), and in the midst of our serious meeting, my roommate busts in, half naked, recites some song lyrics by a death metal band about raping and killing women, and immediately walked out. Of course I said I would write. I had things to write about.
Now I work a 9-5, and I go to bed by eleven every night. I guess I could write about that, but it sounds pretty fucking boring to me. Of course, things aren’t that cut and dry. Writing can be so therapeutic, but it can also be a trigger. For me, writing isn’t about always getting your point across, which is why when I am told to write what I feel, all I can do is laught.It’s about speaking in truths and myths and contradictions and letting the reader decide for themselves what they would like to think. Writing is about putting a tiny fragment of yourself into something much larger. Bigger than me, bigger than you, bigger than your mom and dad, bigger than this city, or even this world. Written words are the energies flowing from the trees into the grass and right into the souls of the reader and those they come in contact with.
So, that being said, how could I NOT have writers block? I have always known mediocrity is unacceptable. There is no ‘like’ or ‘dislike’, there is only love and hate. Writing either strikes you to the very core, or it doesn’t make you blink twice. That’s some scary shit! But! In the words of Fitzgerald, “we beat on, boats against the current”. We will continue to write, we will continue to read, and judge, and love, and work our shitty minimum wage jobs. We’ll continue talking and laughing and crying and mourning and celebrating and dancing and eating and drinking (lots of drinking) and we’ll keep feeling all these fucking feelings that constantly overwhelm us and I will keep writing my sentimental bullshit but we will stop being fearful of failure. Failure, I’ve learned, is the most unavoidable fact of life. In the briefest of moments when your body gets all tingly and you think “yeah–this is it. This is what life is about”, all the failures will be insignificant. That is why we have to beat on. So this is me telling my writers block to go to hell, we can all be diamonds in the rough.

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