This is for You. All of You

I had an epiphany while eating lunch in the Kroger parking lot today.  Let’s not dwell on the fact that I’m pathetic enough to eat lunch alone in my car.  There are more important things here.  Focus. 

I popped off the top of my Baconator fries I had just ordered from Wendy’s, and opened the cover of Yes Please from Kelli, a girl in my office who has decided to do a book swap with me.  I realize it’s basically a mortal sin that I haven’t read it twice already, but life gets in the way.

I was halfway through the preface, licking processed cheese goop and bacon grease off my finger, when I felt something inside me swell (no, this is not going to turn into some weird 50 Shades of Gray shit.  Just let me be flowery here).  Amy writes,

“You just dig in and you write it.  You use your body.  You lean over the computer and stretch and pace.  You write and then you cook something and then write some more.  You put your hand on your heart and feel it beating and decide if what you wrote feels true.  You do it because the doing of it is the thing.  The doing is the thing.  The talking and worrying and thinking is not the thing.  That is what I know.  Writing the book is about writing the book.”

Writing is the thing.  Writing is the thing that I’ve been writing about and writing is the thing that I’ve been talking about and writing is the thing that keeps me up at night because I never know when I’m actually going to just fucking write.  And after reading this preface, it’s like all the clouded dreams and hopes and “I wish”s have become lucid.  Stop complaining about not having enough time to write.  Stop writing something and letting your brain get in the way, just to erase it and tamp down every seemingly ludicrous idea.  Stop making excuses.  Stop worrying, “will anyone read it?”  Just. Fucking. Write.

So that’s what I’ve decided I’m going to do.  Something I’ve been promising myself and something I’ve been talking about and something I’ve been putting off until “the right time,” missing so many other right times that could’ve been writing times.

I’m going to write a book. 

And I guess since it’s out there now, I can’t take it back.  And YOU, the one reading this. YOU have dragged yourself into this.  You have, whether by accident or completely on purpose, made yourself someone to hold me accountable.  Whether you give a shit about my writing or not (if not, you can just heckle me if I don’t finish the book. I’ll deserve it for making such a bold statement and then not following through), you have become part of this process.  But I can’t let you do that without thanking you first.

Thank you.  

To everyone who keeps up or has kept up with my writing, despite many hiatuses, frequent questionable posts and undoubtedly, sometimes failure to impress. 

To people who have written me personal messages telling me that my writing has impacted them or impacted someone else they know.  Because that’s my aim.  I write to relate.  Not to be superior or demand an audience.  I write because goddamnit, there’s bound to be someone else out there who has fucked up in the ways that I have and just needs someone to say “PREEEACH.” (I apologize for using that.  I only use slang ironically.  Most of the time.)

To people who have liked and commented and shared and Tweeted and Tumblred and Whateverelsed my posts.  Your support and motivation is greater to me than you’ll ever know.  Like, I don’t think you have any idea how many times I refresh Facebook and freak out about how many people have seen it and shared it.

To the people who have been there from day one.  When I was 19 years old and decided to start some idiotic, immature blog about ridiculous and serendipitous things that happened to me.  Looking back at some of the things I wrote, I want to cringe and hide and get into a bar fight with my former self for being so, well, ridiculous.  Between switching blog names and taking long, indefinite breaks, you still read what I write.  And that’s incredible to me.  There’s too many of you to even name.  Just know that I know who you are, and I appreciate everything.

To my ex-boyfriends and past frenemies who have supplied me with endless fodder over the years.  Shout out to you.  Didn’t anyone ever warn you not to clash swords with a writer?

To my high school English teachers Kelly Kirwan and Diane Darst, who both taught me there shouldn’t be any shame in writing something if it’s honest and beautiful.  Who constantly encouraged me to write past formulaic academia and let me find my own voice.

To my high school speech coaches Daniel Hamm, Woody Zorn, Jenn Watson, Bill Thompson, and Jeff Mangum, who all embraced (and put up) with my inappropriate humor and pushed me to find the persona that I put into almost all of the essays I write.

To my college professors Bill Bettler, Kathy Barbour and Kay Stokes who let me grow into myself as a writer and saw my potential to do something with it (and didn’t mind having a drink or two with me after graduation).

To Laurie Notaro, who was my first serious writing influence.  The first person who actually made me laugh out loud while I was reading, and made me say to myself “that’s what I want to do.” (I realize Laurie Notaro will probably never read this, but thanks, homegirl.  Without you, I would be hesitant about accepting my inner Idiot Girl).

To all of my close friends who have the privilege (burden?) of talking to me on a daily basis, and who make this interesting life possible.  Your friendship has been invaluable to me.  But you already know that.

To my parents, obviously, for having me.  But on a serious note, you’ve put up with a lot of shit.  I mean, a lot.  Like, day after-eating-Chinese-food shit.  And you’ve supported me in every single move I’ve made (except for all the times I got tattoos, which I’ll forgive you for).

To my sweet, patient Pat who has had to and will have to put up with my neuroticism long into the future.  For you, I am most thankful, because I couldn’t imagine what you have to endure.

Sorry for the Oscar speech.  It seems like I’m getting ahead of myself.  Now I’ll look like a HUUUUUUGE ninny if I don’t write this book.  But I just wanted to lay all of my “thank you”s out there in advance, because honestly, without a lot of the help and support and encouragement I’ve had,  I wouldn’t have had the courage or motivation to do any of this.  So I mean it.  Thank you.

With that being said, to focus on writing this thing, I will be uploading on here a little less regularly, and the articles won’t be of much weight or very personal (think BuzzFeed lists or things of the like—maybe a few funny poems or quote lists).

I will also be deactivating my personal Facebook account to put more time toward writing—but never fear!  I will be creating a Kind Of An Adult, But Not Really page so you can keep up with any updates, send messages, all that jazz (or I could create the page and absolutely no one could “Like” it, that’d be totally cool, too).

Like Amy said, I’m off to do the thing.  But I had to say ‘thank you’ first.