Who the Hell Said You Could Write?

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I honestly thought I published this post three days ago. I think I'm losing what was left of my mind.

 I can’t recall anyone telling me to pursue a paid writing career. My family discouraged me from entering any creative occupation, despite my father's background as a professor of literature and social sciences. I ultimately followed my parents' wishes and entered the healthcare field. Ironically, working in this field destroyed my health.

I later learned that my father hoped I would become a professor of Middle English because of my early interest in the subject. I was a precocious language learner. By the time I was four years old, I was reading Dr. Seuss' books. By six, I was reading Edgar Allan Poe.

Scarier still, I related to Edgar Allan Poe. I was not a particularly happy child. I never felt like I belonged. I realized at a young age that the world was a scary place filled with awful possibilities. Perhaps childhood should be carefree and idyllic, but it’s naïve to believe it actually is.

These days I find myself wishing I could travel back in time and tell my parents, “I know you’re doing what you think is right because of what you learned from your own families, but you need to stop and rethink things. You are really fucking up this child, who, in the future, will become the horrifying swamp witch you see before you. You are fracturing her fragile eggshell mind before she even learns how to critique a concept to see if it holds up. You are contributing to the creation of a neurotic, traumatized soul who has no self-confidence or belief in herself.”

I can’t do that, though. I don’t have any sort of time machine or portal spell that will allow me to journey to the past and talk sense to my parents or push my bullies into a mud puddle if I’m feeling benevolent or a fire ant hill if I’m feeling less so.

I grew up in New Mexico. I learned to hate fire ants early on. I’m surprised I haven’t written a horror story about fire ants yet. Or maybe I’m not. I really don’t care for stories about creepy crawlies.

I’m not sure what my intention is with this blog. I keep trying to reinvent my online presence. There are certain things I’ve learned along the way, but I’d feel like a bullshit artist if I tried to present myself as some kind of know-it-all expert.

I do know I’m done screaming into the void, hoping someone will sympathize with my pain and validate my existence. I can only speak from my own experiences. I can’t force others to care about me. If I help someone else by exposing my foibles or relating my misadventures, it’s a win.

Word Nerd Bonus

If you'd like to see a comparison between the first draft of this post and the finished version, hop over to Readers Roost.

https://ornerybookemporium.blogspot.com/2024/07/shameless-self-promotion-inspiration.html

I removed 50 filler words and restructured sentences and paragraphs to enhance clarity and readability. Both versions of the post convey the same message, but the second one does so more efficiently.

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