For the past few weeks I’ve been digging deep for more light-hearted, funnier-ish, look-at-me-I’m-not-always-a-dark-sociopath content. Besides the two victims whom I wished explosive diarrhea upon (I’m sure it was justified), I think I’ve been doing ok-ish. Give me some credit.
It’s so tough. It’s tough trying to aim for this positive, bright, encouraging, forever-witty, entertaining blog when there’s a dark cloud of WTF-are-you-doing-with-your-life-even, Ely? constantly hovering above my big ass head.
I just want to write. But I don’t just want to write. I want to…WRITE write. That makes total sense
write right? Right.
I wish I could be more productive. I wish I could have a stronger message to spread. I wish I could inspire millions of people with my legitimate advice, or my nonexistent success stories or my amazing ability to live a picture perfect life or a mastered skill of some kind. But the truth is, I don’t really consider myself good enough at anything in particular that could mold me into some bold edgy writer.
I know that sounds pessimistic. It’s not. It’s raw honesty. This isn’t me beating myself up or feeling sorry for myself. This is me acknowledging the fact that I’m not anywhere near where I’d like to be. Not with my career, not with my personal life, not with my side hustle, and especially, particularly, not with my writing.
SGNF was my like, 4th attempt at having a blog of any kind and it was never meant to fall into any niche, because this place was meant for me to unravel myself…find my voice…build myself up. But I wonder if this selfish intent has just been a detriment to my success as a writer? “Success”. “Writer”. Those are two loaded fucking words, aren’t they?
But what does it actually take? Honestly? Don’t tell me consistency. I know that much. Besides not being consistent, not having any connections, flashy photos to post, and being a potty-mouth… I must be doing everything else wrong too. Ha.
I THOUGHT I KNEW WHAT IT TOOK ONCE UPON A TIME.
A few years ago I stood up for the little-writer-that-could dreams that I cozily slept through at night for so many years and told my then boyfriend that hey boo listen. So I wanna be a famous, paid blogger ok? Because my dream is to write and my book isn’t happening so I’m gonna write about the things I know about. I’ll be making some extra cash in NO time! I’m a badass writer. How hard could it be?! Look at all these famous mommy bloggers out here just like…writing and being stay at home moms? I got this.
And so. I went to work. I was ready to hustle for my dreams.
All of it.
I read the all the things. I bought books. I sat at Barnes and Noble like a book nerd doing important business stuff. I googled EVERYTHANG. I read all the big blogs. I had all the ideas. I would be like a zero-filter cosmetics reviewer. And duh. Products would just like sponsor me or whatever right? And then cha-chiiinnnggg! Dolla dolla bills ya’ll!
I did everything.
Except actually write.
Please hold, I’m nauseated by my naive few-years-ago self.
It wasn’t until I decided to “self-host” my (empty of any actual writing) site “Lé Junkanista” (insert cringe) that I quickly became a shivering, paranoid puppy lost in the endless conundrums of affiliations and SEO stuff and Adwords and promotion techniques and photography fuckeries and web design expenses and well-
that was it for me. Done deal. Nope. Not happening.
THINGS GOT “TOO HARD” AT THE VERY BEGINNING SO I QUIT. CLASSIC ME. AND WHO DO I BLAME? THE UNIVERSE. DUH.
Because like most textbook Libras, I do everything in life backwards and inside out.
I started my first year of college before I got to my senior year of high-school. Check. I got pregnant before I got married. Check. I had a family before I bought a home. Check. I started websites without any content. Check. I spent money on baking supplies for my side business before I’d even attempted my first cake. Check.
Also? Textbook Libra issue: it’s either now or never. If I can’t have it now, if I can’t master this (anything) now-on my first try, if I can’t immediately be the best at this- then forget it. I don’t want it anymore. I refuse to be mediocre or second best or to wait for anything.
And This is the part where I recognize that I just used my horoscope as an excuse for my lavish failures. Like it’s not my fault I’m an asshole. No! YOU SEE THOSE MISALIGNED AF STARS UP THERE? YES! THEM! They did this! THIS IS YOUR FAULT YOU SHITTY STARS! Ugh!
WHERE IS THIS COMING FROM, SERIOUSLY…
I read half of a book that pissed me off. Rachel Hollis in “Girl, Wash Your Face” is preaching and preaching about not believing the lies we tell ourselves and how we can do anything without money or connections bla bla bla yet. Here she is. HAPPENS to be married to David Hollis who’s basically super RICH and super connected because he’s the chief distributor for Disney and then she happens to get the opportunity to write a book even though she’s never even taken a writing class.
Sooooo. Maybe I don’t have her ENTIRE background down-packed and I’m sure she’s worked her ass off. Fine. Granted. After all, she did move to L.A. on her own after high school, landing a little job at Miramax and later becoming a “celebrity” party planner. But either way, it was most definitely, money and connections at the end of it all. So I call bullshit. Great book thus far! But I still call bullshit, Rachel.
GIRL, WASH YOUR FACE. There’s a tiny piece of bullshit left on the bottom corner of your lip.
It’s depressing that a normal- like legit-normal, middle class, unconnected person is so unlikely to make it big out here. With anything really. Rather than lift my spirits up to get me motivated and off my ass, this self-help book has knocked the wind out of me and left me on the cold, hard stone floor trying to catch my breathe. Alone. Shivering. In the dark. Wanting to delete my blog and hide in a cave for the rest of my days.
Does this mean I quit? Nah. There are no legitimate caves in Miami anyways. It just means I’m not really sure what the goal or the point is anymore. I’ve lost the vision… hopefully temporarily. I’m not sure what direction I’m headed toward and I can’t see a clear picture of where I even want to go from here.
I need the light.
But who knows. Maybe through this moment of “normal bitches don’t REALLY succeed” will come the birth of an epiphany, or an AHA! moment. Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just forever be a middle aged, zero-fucks-given, ranting mom with a dream to keep writing.