When you close your eyes and make a wish, you probably wish for love and money.
I wish for a broader vocabulary and better writing skills.
I want to express myself more effectively and go beyond my comfort zone. I want to leave the ghetto of human resources and expand my expertise into pop culture, feminism and movies. I want to write young adult fiction novels and dabble in sitcoms. I want to publish a series of self-help books and write a regular column in the newspaper where I talk about pets.
I’m not there, yet. It’s tough for me to make art. When I write, I over articulate and go for volume and noise instead of simplicity and authenticity. I am all caught up in my own ego. When you own a platform and command an audience, you should have the self-respect to know when not to publish something. But it is easier to bedazzle a pile of shit — and count the SEO-driven pageviews — than it is to throw the shit away and have nothing to show for my hard work.
Maybe this is what being a full-time writer is supposed to feel like in 2014. When I write something that’s honest, it feels like an accident. Art feels like a miracle.
At some point, I hope to continue blogging five days a week while giving myself the gift of distractionless writing. I want to learn how to edit what’s good for different platforms. I want to think beyond 500 words. And I want to learn how to throw away my trash.
But right now, writing regularly anywhere — book or blog — is a struggle.