Grief

Sorry, folks, having a hard time of it. But the good news is I only have so many old friends left and, surely, I won't outlive all of them, so I can't imagine this will happen often.

Been trying to write but it's been, well, you know

I think it's the screen. The screen is too bright. Everything is too bright. If I could turn the dimmer switch down on the world, I think my brain would be much more cooperative.

I never felt such crystalline hope as I did with him. Every dream was tangible. Reality was ours for the making. I'll probably never feel that way again. As the years grow longer, as God so afflicts me with the burden of living, as his face fades and my memories grow thin, that pure, perfect hope he kindled within me will dwindle and dwindle. So, before that happens, I must say:

All I've wanted for as long as I can remember was to be a professional writer. But even as a child, when teachers asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would lie. I'd say doctor, or lawyer, or any of the generic-fill-in-the-blank responses, because even then, it felt impossible, as ridiculous as astronaut or president. As I grew older, and my writing improved, it began to feel less impossible and merely extremely unrealistic. But I'd still lie, because it felt like a mix of arrogance and fantasy to declare that I wanted to make a living writing. In high school, when it wasn't as cool to go with doctor or engineer anymore, I would just shrug and lie with a "I don't know yet."

In college, I remember, once, my creative writing professor asked me to take a walk with her. It caught me off guard because I thought I was pretty visibly losing my mind at the time, but she was kind - worried, but kind. She said, "You remind me of David Foster Wallace." And then she got flustered and quickly added, "But not like that, with the, uh--" struggling to find the appropriate words for suicidal depression that wouldn't further dig her into her hole.

I thought to myself, that's probably all I have in common with David Foster Wallace. But aloud I waved her off with a laugh and said, "It's okay. I know what you meant."

She recovered, gave me some more compliments, before getting to the reason why she'd asked me for a walk. It was an intervention for a talented young man who was quite visibly losing his mind. She was pretty nervous, and as she got going, I could tell that while this wasn't something she did often, it was something she'd clearly wanted to tell others in the past.

"Everyone wants to be a full-time writer, right, but that's something a literally countable number of people achieve. As in, you could make a list of them, you know what I mean? It would be a long list, and it might take a few months, but you could make the list." She paused then to let that hang on its own. "Which is why if you're serious about being a published writer, it's a good idea to start looking at other, more reliable sources of income. Like, I teach! I love teaching, but I chose it because it let's me write. I'd bet most of the department would say the same thing."

That's the problem with talking to writers, you see, we always got to jerk ourselves off with metaphors and subtext. She had to dance an entire waltz around: 'Please don't drop out. Writing seems important to you; that's a good reason not to drop out, right?' But, to her credit, I suppose, it did stick in my mind.

I said, "Yeah, that makes sense." But I could tell that she could tell I had zero intention of taking the advice, so I added, "I do enjoy tutoring. Teaching might be nice."

I dropped out a few weeks later - unrelated to her. It was good advice, but I was a full-blown maniac not long after the conversation. I took it later, as you've noticed. Currently, I do this, work odd jobs when I can get them, and am in a master's program.

You wouldn't think it, but even when you're an adult, people will continue to ask you what do you want to be when you grow up. They phrase it differently, of course; now it's: 'Would you ever hire employees?' and 'Would you work with kids?', but the core of the conversation is there. I recognize these questions as such and lie or defer almost as muscle memory. Only to a very select few, have I admitted, "I'm just doing this shit until I can figure out a way to make a living writing."

They've been supportive, but I could always tell that on hearing the statement, they had some immediate 'concerns' (the more supportive form of doubt). It's fine. I don't begrudge them. It's the natural reaction to when someone tells you they want to achieve the all-but-certainly unachievable. I doubted myself as well. I mean, you could make a list, you know?

Only one man never doubted that I'd do it, not even for a second. The possibility of failure never crossed his mind. He was insane, you see. He was an insane, reckless, hedonist who was always going to die young, but that's probably what it takes to believe like he did. And when I talked to him about my writing, I believed like he did too. He'd tell other people I was a writer, and I'd talk about it openly with them, even relative strangers. 'Yeah, I've got a Patreon. It's smutty fiction, but I'm having fun with it.'

Well, he's dead now. And I don't know if I'll ever believe in myself like that again.

But, goddamn, I just can't stand that thought. I really think it could kill me if I let it. I can't hope like he did, with that absoluteness that defies reason, but I can still conjure how I felt was around him, that surety of self and purpose. Reality was ours. So, before that sense memory leaves me, I will find a way to replicate it in my own way. Maybe instead of hope, it'll be a singular drive, or spite for the world, or just plain delusion, but I will achieve that certainty again. And I am going to get on that goddamn list if it kills me.

Anyway, I'll be back. Just, you know, in a little bit. I'm awful tired. It might be touch and go for a while. And I might dip deep into the mania for some time. But, I'll be back.

Yeah. I'll be back.