I recently decided to take a short break from writing–a horrible horrible horrible idea. I mean, my brain was kind of exhausted because of school, and I felt like no matter how much I was writing it was trash. Not to mention, my mind was running like 90 mph, and I couldn’t focus on anything to save my life. So I just hit the pause button and took a step back.
It’s been one month since I’ve wrote anything outside of my class work. I’ve used this opportunity to pay attention to myself and what kind of person I am (reflecting time or whatever). Writing has always been my guide in that department, and without it I was able to be consciously aware of how I act and react to certain things.
Here’s what I learned:
1. I am such an awkward human being. I can be outgoing and funny, no doubt about it (and especially witty), but I’ve learned that when I am caught in a rushed situation where I exchange a few passing words with someone, I am hella awkward. My voice is gets all high and weird, and my words roll off my tongue very slow and drawn out. And I’m walking along afterwards like WTF was that?
It’s happened twice today–so far.
11 AM. I’m about to pass a girl I had class with last semester on the sidewalk as I head to my English Grammar class. I wave with a friendly smile. She doesn’t see me. I feel like such an idiot, because the person behind her is like “Me?”. She finally looks up from the sidewalk. I try again. She waves back this time. I say hi in passing, she says hi back, and then I’m like… “Bye.” The boy walking with her laughs at me.
Like I said–awkward and embarrassing.
2. I’m moody when I don’t write. I don’t know what it is. I guess frustration, maybe, for not being able to adequately put my ideas down on paper in more than an outline form. I’m not sure. All I know is that for this past month I’d write things and then store them in an IDK folder on my laptop. Regard to them as garbage, but couldn’t actually bring myself to delete them. It was driving me insane not being able to write what I wanted. Then again, I really didn’t know what I wanted to write. I was just strapping for time trying to make magic appear out of thin air. Turns out you can’t do it like that.
3. I’m not used to having friends with the same interests as me. All my life, I’ve sort of felt alone for being the girl who liked to read and write. At times I felt like I was the only one in the world who enjoyed doing those things, but then I graduated high school and started college. Turns out there’s a sea of people with the same interests as me, and I’m not sure how to go about that. I learned at a young age that my old friends really didn’t give a crap about what book I was reading that month or that I loved to write. Eventually, I just stopped talking about my interests all together, and became the friend that was all ears ready to give advice. I’ve went through a lotta best friends, and it’s taken me forever to accept that it’s okay to talk about myself and what I like. It’s okay to need a friend and someone to give me advice instead of the other way around.
4. I had to change up my reading lists. All the books I’ve been reading start out the same, and the outcome of the plot is too similar. I was kind of lost there for a while on what to read. I’m picky about what I reading. The most important thing for me is the writing style and the characters. If I don’t like the authors writing style it’s very difficult for me to get into it. I’ve started on like five books and refused to carry on with them–something that I hate doing. I feel like it’s such a waste of book; I get the same feeling as if I’m wasting food. So I recently went through all my books and cleaned out the ones I didn’t like.
5. I spend too much time worrying about how others perceive me. I’m not a chipper person. I’m not the type that is going to strike up a conversation with the person in the Starbucks line behind me. Add in my six feet of height, and I rarely get approached by anyone. I’m regularly shy until I get to know a person. I am awkward in confrontations with new people (refer back up to No. 1). I don’t want to do my makeup that will make me look like a twenty-eight year old, when in reality I’m twenty-one, because anyone my age will think I’m too old to associate with. I don’t want to dress in clothes that will make me seem unapproachable. I don’t want to make someone feel insecure–the way I feel when the girl with the perfect body and skin walks into the room. And don’t read this as if I’m hating on those girls. We all have our insecurities, and those girls with the perfect bodies and skin might not feel like they are beautiful, because they perceive themselves differently than me or you do.
But. I can’t go on like this. It’s stressful and pointless. I will literally drive myself insane if I continue worrying about how I come off to others. I strive to be a nice person. I try to do the right thing in every situation, and I love and accept people for who they are. Just know that if you see me sitting at a table in Starbucks (or any coffee place), I’d be delighted if you pulled up a chair and started a conversation with me about literally anything.
I just have a lame way of coming across as a talkative person.
While we’re on the topic of beauty and insecurities, I want to share a poem with y’all by Rupi Kaur from her book Milk and Honey. I highly recommend her book. It’s SO beautiful and raw and real.
*insert like a million hearts*
So in the center of my writing slump something awesome happened. Last night I was sitting on the couch with Gilmore Girls playing on the TV (the one where Jess comes back and jolts Rory out of her funk for dropping out of Yale), gripping my Stranger Things mug filled with Southern Pecan flavored coffee with Hazelnut creamer, staring at the green Thin Mints box on my coffee table.
And BAM! I was back.
Needless to say, I wrote like 2,000 words last night. I couldn’t type fast enough.
So long story short: I’m never taking a break from writing. Like ever again. It just doesn’t work for me. I feel weird and moody and uncomfortable and I don’t like it.
Now, I’m not sure how to end this. I’m being awkward again, so I’m just going to give y’all a slight, stiff wave and call it a day.
Until next time.
Randi Garner 