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Today is a day like many others. I wake up, brush my teeth, hate my face, and open my laptop. There, a blank page stares at me, its cursor flashing like some idiot who forgot to turn off his blinker. BUT YOU’RE ALREADY IN THE LEFT LANE, BUDDY.
Writing is really fucking hard, man.
Much harder than talking or algebra or eating an XXL pizza at Pete and Elda’s in Neptune City, New Jersey. I don’t know Pete or Elda personally, but I think they had the right idea. They at least give you a free t-shirt for your self-indulgent efforts. (I have 35.)
But the blank page doesn’t care about you. It doesn’t tell you when you’re on the right track, like your favorite elementary school teacher. It doesn’t nod along encouragingly as you tell your story, like your supportive roommate. It doesn’t help you when you’re stuck or tell you to not be so hard on yourself or ask you thought-provoking questions.
It just sits there, completely unaffected, as you pour out your heart and soul for hours. Because honestly, the blank page is a royal asshole.
And yet, as writers, we do this anyway. Every single day, we put in the time, thought, keystrokes, and chicken scratch to create something new, in hopes that it will be beautiful or touching or clever or insightful. In hopes that our friends, family, and random internet strangers will like it, internally and digitally. In hopes that it will bring us closer to who we want to be. And above all else, in hopes that it will be true.
This morning, it’s just me and the blank page.
Mano a mano. In the Octagon. Only one of us will emerge, the other scarred, beaten, and defeated. But this is what I want. Because a writer is—above all other things—someone who writes. You’ve got to put in your reps. You have to go heavy. You have to do the work, even on the days when you wake up and feel like absolute trash. You can’t skip leg day. You have to fight through the frustration, the confusion, the flailing, the thrashing. The paralyzing self-doubt. The always wondering if you’re good enough, or just another hack phony fraud hipster fuck with a MacBook and a cup of tea.
It never gets easier. Which is why you literally HAVE TO surround yourself with creative people. People who GET IT: the process, the goal, the dream, and the fog of isolation that covers you as you try to pen the next Great American Novel. You need thoughtful, open-minded people who selflessly give you their ideas and feedback—what about this? did you try that?—not just garbage-ass Facebook likes. Because you’re not some fiend just looking for a hit. You crave something real.
You need people who, every week, read your pages and tell you that they understand you. People who give a shit about the work you put in because they can see who you want to be. People who understand that the process is more important than the outcome, and who will come along with you for the ride. They nurture you, build you up, make you feel whole, even when you just want to stop and quit and wilt and die.
The creative people who have been part of The Prompt this year have lifted me up.
And I am so thankful to and for (and six and eight?) the writers and podcasters who are so smart, so creative, so funny, so clever, and so dedicated. The people who keep The Prompt—and its annoying, overenthusiastic, tryhard editor—afloat. Earnest people, many with great hair, who are willing to put in the work to build something really fucking special and ask virtually nothing in return.
You guys do dope shit. You write like words matter. You write good jokes and edgy jokes and boner jokes. You are definitely smarter than I am, and I’m a better writer today—to paraphrase Canadian angel Celine Dion—because you loved me. I owe you all pretty much everything.
From September 2016 to today—a year in which my vehicle would otherwise have careened into a fiery pit of lava alligators—you gave me everything I needed to stay on the damn road. And I’m so fucking thankful.
Because this is my calling. And these are my people. We write because we have to.
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