What Happens In My Head When I Write
A relatable stream of consciousness for writers and other creatives.
Time to make the magic happen, and by magic, I mean desperately try to make it through the first draft process without saying fuck it, exiting out of the browser and watching YouTube videos instead.
To start off: you suck. Why try? You could get a job at a call center. It would probably be less humiliating.
Reign it in, Raegan. This is supposed to be fun and fulfilling. Repeat your affirmations.
I am a tough bitch. I am a writer. I can do hard things.
*Deep breath* Ok, I’m ready.
Am I?
I am…hopefully. Where’s my participation medal for making it this far?
What to write. Hm. Has anything significant happened in the past week in my personal life? I hit a snowbank in my dad’s car and broke the front bumper. I feel like this is how Buzzfeed generates 97.5% of its content: milking their employees for their life experiences and stories, overworking them then spitting them out as capable solo content creators. Ah, hustle culture. I do not miss you.
*Goes to open YouTube in browser but can’t because SelfControl is turned on*
Dammit. My productivity app is cockblocking me. I guess I’ll write. UGH. It’s too quiet…I can hear the sound of my own thoughts. I think that’s kind of the point but I’m not enjoying it. Maybe I need some inspirational music?
*Puts on Money by Cardi B* Much better.
This is about the point where I stop, go back up to the top and edit what I’ve written so far because I’m stuck.
Is this good enough?
Are my thoughts valid?
Am I screaming into a void?
Yep.
AHHHHAHHHAHHHHHHHHhhhhhHHHHH WHY IS THIS SO HARD.
Is it so much to ask to sit down and rattle out 500 words of charming, light, poignant, earth-shifting, thought-provoking, revolutionary and delightful content? No.
How did Carrie Bradshaw do this shit? Oh right, she’s a fictional character invented by a man. I BLAME MY UNREALISTIC STANDARDS ON THE DUDE WHO CREATED EMILY IN PARIS.
I could always write an essay about how Darren Star is ruining my life. You know what, I can’t blame him for my frustration with myself. That’s low-hanging fruit. I’m better than that.
Am I though? Well, I’m trying to be...
You can’t pull off her outfits, but maybe you can channel Carrie and write about dating. What about that feeling you get when you come home to an empty house after a date and sigh deeply, turn on a single lamp for dramatic low lighting, take off your uncomfortable outfit, put on Taylor Swift and text your best friend asking if they will adopt a dog with you. I think I’m on to something.
Actually, you’re not because no one is really dating due to the pandemic. Damn. Time to stare out the window and question everything!!!!!!!!!!!!
HELLO VOID? IT’S ME RAEGAN AND I’M DRESSED LIKE AN UNEMPLOYED LUMBERJACK THAT RAIDED FOREVER21. Send help.
This is where I procrastinate and text my boyfriend a monologue he won’t reply to because we live in different time zones and he’s asleep. The fact that I have a boyfriend shows miracles are possible. Maybe that means I’m capable of finishing this in one afternoon.
*Unbuttons pants and moves to the bed with my laptop in an attempt to truly embody the casual tone I hope to convey in my writing*
I’m a cool chill girl doing cool chill girl things. Am I relatable or just fully unhinged? I can’t tell.
*Frantically Googles how to make your writing sound authentic*
At least nobody is gonna accuse me of passing up the opportunity to overthink this. Time to hit publish and call this clusterfuck-of-words art.
As my writing teacher Julia says,
SHIP IT, BABY.
