If you're reading this it's too late

I almost began this entry with some barb about contributing more buzz-worded, trend-hopping ephemera into the blogosphere, but I’m trying to be less cynical. I actually really like writing, especially when it comes to the unimportant, insubstantial, and fleeting. I’m of the belief that writing is a romantic act, no matter what. Anything that requires thought and attention is poignant to me.

When I started writing here, I was a high school senior with a ton of time on my hands and traces of critical thought rising from the ashes of my internet-fried brain. Getting older, smarter, and ostensibly less jaded has made me a profoundly different writer. (Cut to eighteen-year-old Claire reading the word "ephemera" and rolling her eyes.) I like writing, and I like the way I write. I like how easily I can block out the world as soon as I get into a groove. I like how excited I get when I string a good sentence together. I like watching my style emerge as I grow more confident in my words.

But writing is rewarding because it's romantic, it asks a lot of us. Writing something good demands time and attention. It requires a level of security in oneself. When I say I love writing, I mean I love it when I feel like I can do it. Which, unfortunately, is not conducive to how often I want to write. And the better I get at writing, the less I feel able to do it.

I wish I could say I’m a perfectionist. I’m guilty of saying it in the past, and a part of me still holds on to the possibility. But I’m a little suspicious of that word. I know how convenient it is to conceal self-doubt with its more virtuous cousin. I'll depart from my anti-cynical efforts to pose a question: Are us perfectionists just (gasp) narcissists?

The short answer is yes.¹ All the proof you need is in my little gray trash can, filled with crumpled college-rule. I never thought it possible for me to write like Joan Didion or Susan Sontag or even Cat Marnell. Just putting the possibility in writing feels presumptuous. Yet, I approach writing with a ridiculous, self-destructive ultimatum, my ego demanding that a 250-word discussion post must change more lives than War and Peace. My desire isn't to create something perfect, it's to be the creator of said perfect thing. 

I started this blog because it felt like a good way to spend my time. I was just starting to take note of cool art and music and films. I knew I could write, at least well enough to make English teachers like me. I didn't care about having an argument or having a writer's voice or even having good grammar. It just seemed like fun. 

Now, I can say with confidence that I've never been more equipped to write. Every day, I’m inspired by things I learn about in class, things my friends say, things I experience firsthand. I wax poetic on the metro, at the gym, and in the grocery store, but the second I sit in front of my laptop, I get stuck.

Thus begins the endless cycle of writer's block. Doubt begets desire, desire begets doubt. It's like the world's worst ouroboros. At the time of writing this, I have upwards of 15 drafts sitting in my archives. Every so often, I'll open one of the files, change a few sentences, and abandon it again. Only now am I realizing the futility of my actions. I’m too proud of my ideas to ever let them see the light of day. 

Am I being too cynical again?

I know this entry seems a little defeatist, but the fact that you're reading this at all is pretty significant. It's been almost a year since my last entry, and I hate that! The inactivity makes me feel guilty, but more than anything else, I miss writing for myself. I miss writing without thinking about how my words will sound in the heads of readers who aren't me. I miss being able to write something adequate. If writing is as romantic as I say it is, then I should have more faith in my abilities. 

I know it seems a little dissonant to publish something purportedly written for personal reasons. If you're reading this right now, that's great. If you're reading this right now and it sounds overindulgent or pretentious or simply incoherent, that's great too. I may not be adding anything to the greater ephemera, but that's okay. This one's for me. 

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1. The long answer has been relegated to a footnote. I felt compelled to include the little counterargument I had in my head immediately after writing this sentence. Anything can fall under the narcissism clause these days. Now more than ever, self-absorption is part of the human condition. We are encouraged, physically, digitally, societally, to objectify ourselves at every opportunity. So I think narcissism is not the simplest judgment to make. For the sake of my argument, I am not seeking to condemn the act of self-perception, but rather the constant urge to surveil one's own existence in the world. Narcissism is as much self-hatred as it is self-love. And in that regard, I say to hell with it!