Recently, I’ve taken to the desperate world of “writer prompts” in search of inspiration. It’s a lucrative business. Writers too lazy or too empty to find their own ideas scour the internet for pre-packaged ones and often those too lazy or too empty to expand on their own ideas cast them to abyss for others to take care of. (To those prompt-writers that actually write on their own prompts, I give you props.) Prompt-hunting for me is an embarrassing adventure. I feel like a hypocrite every time. How in the hell can I spew on and on about how much writing means to me when I A) barely do it and B) hardly have any ideas for where to take it? Of course, this feeling of hypocrisy arises in me several other questions about myself.
- Do I have the right to call myself even a hobbyist writer?
- If writing is just a trite blurb in my sphere of enjoyment, what means more to me and why am I not willing to admit that it means more?
And the most troubling question of all . . .
3. How much of a difference is there between the real me and the me I portray to others and especially to myself?
This questioning of myself prompts me to go into identity crisis mode. I often find myself glazing over the answers for all three questions because I just don’t want to fucking deal it. If I question my love of writing, I’ll then question my love of literature, which will be followed by me questioning the gap I’ve created between my identity and who I really am thus charging myself with a personal felony — serial self-deception.
But as I write this blog entry, an alternative state of mind comes to me. If I apply my outward bluntness to myself, what answers will I find?
Whatever those answers may be, I know that I won’t be ready to tell them to blogging world until I personally reconciled with them.
Bloggers,writers, and general commentators, have you ever had difficulty aligning your identity with reality? If so, how did you get the two to align?