That, that is, is
There’s nothing crazier than a moment of truth with yourself. Not like some gigantic life altering thing where you are suddenly so miserable with yourself that it’s time to change or it’s do or die.
It’s more of just a realizing that who you are is exactly who you are supposed to be. When you look in the mirror and are finally content with yourself and accepting of who you are, warts and all (metaphorically). Sometimes you have to be with other people to realize that what you have become is what you wanted to become, and that the world is really at your fingersteps and just waiting for you to take control of it.
The story is in your head, just begging to be told, because if you don’t it will more or less explode out of you. The signs are all there, almost saying, “ok, matt, it’s time to write this story, it’s time to start now, b/c otherwise you’ll just be aggravated and become constipated again (once again, metaphorically, although Tylenol and codeine does seem to make one more or less constipated, which could be why my nutritionist recommended I eat oat bran once a day…actually I eat fiber one b/c it tastes better than oat bran).
The story will begin at the beginning, when I’m just graduated in school, or maybe while I’m in school, since it is more or less the story of how I decided to become a writer. I guess I’ve always been a writer since I was a kid, I just would write these crazy stories, mostly to make my grandmother happy…or maybe b/c I was so all over the place as a child that writing was the only thing I could do that wasn’t self destructive, or would cause me to temper tantrum. But maybe that’s not the point right now…other than I wrote for most of my childhood, journals, poems and wacky stories, and then I stopped when I got to college. Well at least until my father passed away, and after writing his eulogy at the grand old age of 21, (my father died 3 days after my 21st birthday), and somehow that let loose some scab, like a smack to the face that said ‘hey, you actually enjoy writing and I think you should do it to get out the things that you need and want to say). So I started writing, went back to school to finish my senior year and just wrote. And frankly, that is all it truly remember of my senior year: wanting to get the hell out of Lehigh and just writing about my family, my mother, my father and me: and realizing what a mess of an individual I was.
I wrote a short story my senior year called, “conversation with a character” in essence, it was me, auditioning some character to be the main person in my story. The story was just me talking with this character, when in essence it really was just me not having anything to write about. But I wrote while working at my student loan job, menial jobs they would give kids to help pay for their tuition, or in my case, have some money to buy things. I wrote this story and my teacher loved it and I ended up winning an award for it…in the price of $450.
I decided I wanted to be a writer…
More of my story to come.
It’s more of just a realizing that who you are is exactly who you are supposed to be. When you look in the mirror and are finally content with yourself and accepting of who you are, warts and all (metaphorically). Sometimes you have to be with other people to realize that what you have become is what you wanted to become, and that the world is really at your fingersteps and just waiting for you to take control of it.
The story is in your head, just begging to be told, because if you don’t it will more or less explode out of you. The signs are all there, almost saying, “ok, matt, it’s time to write this story, it’s time to start now, b/c otherwise you’ll just be aggravated and become constipated again (once again, metaphorically, although Tylenol and codeine does seem to make one more or less constipated, which could be why my nutritionist recommended I eat oat bran once a day…actually I eat fiber one b/c it tastes better than oat bran).
The story will begin at the beginning, when I’m just graduated in school, or maybe while I’m in school, since it is more or less the story of how I decided to become a writer. I guess I’ve always been a writer since I was a kid, I just would write these crazy stories, mostly to make my grandmother happy…or maybe b/c I was so all over the place as a child that writing was the only thing I could do that wasn’t self destructive, or would cause me to temper tantrum. But maybe that’s not the point right now…other than I wrote for most of my childhood, journals, poems and wacky stories, and then I stopped when I got to college. Well at least until my father passed away, and after writing his eulogy at the grand old age of 21, (my father died 3 days after my 21st birthday), and somehow that let loose some scab, like a smack to the face that said ‘hey, you actually enjoy writing and I think you should do it to get out the things that you need and want to say). So I started writing, went back to school to finish my senior year and just wrote. And frankly, that is all it truly remember of my senior year: wanting to get the hell out of Lehigh and just writing about my family, my mother, my father and me: and realizing what a mess of an individual I was.
I wrote a short story my senior year called, “conversation with a character” in essence, it was me, auditioning some character to be the main person in my story. The story was just me talking with this character, when in essence it really was just me not having anything to write about. But I wrote while working at my student loan job, menial jobs they would give kids to help pay for their tuition, or in my case, have some money to buy things. I wrote this story and my teacher loved it and I ended up winning an award for it…in the price of $450.
I decided I wanted to be a writer…
More of my story to come.
