What Is This?

July 6th

I’m lying in pain on the couch. Every slight movement of my abdomen makes me wince. I’m hoping it’s not diverticulitis again. My head is pulsing and woozy, as if I haven’t slept in days. I can’t tell if it’s a massive bout of depression or a lack of oxygen. It’s not just pain; I want to retch. I try but can’t. I grab my phone; I check on a friend to make sure they are all right. Then I place an alarm. One nap later, I’m still laying on the couch going, “What is this?”

 It’s funny what your brain thinks about while in pain. Despite everything, I’m not thinking about what’s wrong with me. I’m thinking of this. This blog. Why do I write? Do I want to interact?

I’ve never been a social person on the internet. Facebook has been such a mess of ads that I only keep it so I stay in contact with family members from across the country. We don’t talk. I’ve been trying to limit my use of Instagram. I’ve been wasting time with the immediate dopamine from Reels. I’ll occasionally send memes to friends. There are rare instances when someone has reached out to me in the messages. Micro-blogging sites like Blusky, or Twitter I’ve used more as a feed to keep up with news of the depressing state of the world. I rarely comment. I don’t even look through a thread’s comments or replies. Tumblr feels like it has its own unspoken community rules that makes me scared to touch it. There’s a feeling I’ve just used all of them wrong, I’m either the unintended audience or I just need a manual to tell me the unspoken social internet rules.

My task app goes off to remind me to prepare for work the next few days.

Am I doing this writing thing for a career? I painfully laugh as that idea crosses my mind. I have no idea what writers make. What I do know is that making money off of your creativity in the current world is especially hard. Years ago, I made video game reviews on Youtube. I had fun doing it, but that only lasted for so long. The more I heard people talking about the space, the more I resented it– the awfulness of playing the Youtube game. Always having to work for The Algorithm, the desperate attempt to keep up with what’s the new zeitgeist. Switching content to stay relevant. You can’t be static and produce the same stuff you enjoy if you’re trying to make it a career unless you have a strong audience. Even for creators that haven’t followed that path; some say they ruined something they loved by making it their source of income. I don’t want to go down that road.

I close my eyes. Five minutes later, ding, “Work”, my phone reads. I take a deep breath, I put all I have to jump off the couch. The first warning side was the pain as I curled before the spring up. I ignored it and fully put in the energy. The balls of my feet land on the cold floor while yelling in pain and almost fall down. It’s a good thing my family is out right now. I look at my messages; my friend hasn’t confirmed if they are good. I hope they are.

Do I write for friends and family? I don’t feel social on the internet, and I have just as hard a time in person. I’ve always felt like I’m off or am just a mimic in public spaces. I’m glad I found people that make me feel like I belong, that it’s fine being myself. I respect them immensely. They’re the ones I would listen to the most if they gave me feedback. I have to let that go. It’s completely human to crave the attention of friends and care what they think. It’s the safety of the community. I’m aware that if I’m trying to write for my friends to read — my friends who all have their own lives, problems, and stuff that takes their time — I would be setting myself up to go down the path of being a hermit hoarding all my stuff since no one would read it. I have to let go of being so concerned with what they think. I’m setting myself up for disappointment.

July 8th 

“Why do you think people write?” I’m back at Chili’s with my best friend, who’s looking disappointed in me when she asked  a question about the political reasoning behind Robert Moses’s actions in the power broker. I just could not answer.

“Why do people x?” A question that’s showed up in my life several times about all sorts of content. 

When I was 11, Outkast’s “Hey Ya” was playing on the grainy ARCO speakers as my dad was pumping gas.

“You know what they were singing about?” He asks.

“No, What?”

“They were singing ‘Hey God’, it’s about God, he’s everywhere, Jose.” My well-meaning dad said, “Why do you think they make music?”

 I felt like there’s never been one good answer. Yes, it could have been about God or to tell the story of how a man’s power ruined the city streets of New York. Though I think it also could be the author could just be wanting to write about their interest. The painter wanted to try a new technique that turned out cool. The game developers just wanted to make a fun game. The artist just wanted to sing about how much they like ass. There are plenty of reasons for an artist to make something. I dwelled on this for a while, though Stephen King’s Memoir “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft” reminded me of one simple fact: whatever the reason a person writes, it is the reader that takes the meaning.

July 22nd

It was July 7th for me to figure out I just had horrible food poisoning that had affected my mind and my body. 

It took weeks for me to come to some sort of conclusion for this blog. Self-reflecting. editing, and staring at the wall of text. 

The reason for, “Why I do this?” is simple. 

I like to write. It’s fun and I do care about what I write. To get my thoughts out immediately after I read a book to help formulate ideas. To help dig into what I like about a podcast. To explore and archive my feelings for D&D and other TTRPGs.  I want to get better at writing. Most importantly, it’s fun for me. 

Now that you’ve heard my thoughts, it’s up to you to get anything from this. 

For me, I’m going to continue to write.