I’m Not Writing This For You

My grandmother wanted me to be a writer. More accurately, she wanted me to just write, because she thought I had “gift” for it (her words, not mine. I’m not trying to boast).  This is all fine as I actually do like writing. I tend not to because I always feel like I don’t have anything to say, nothing worth saying or am hyper-critical of anything I do manage to get down on paper. My grandmother passed away three weeks ago. This is why I’m writing.

In reality, the writer of the family was my grandmother. She published three novels and three children’s books on Amazon Kindle and had another three or four novels that were in various stages of editing/preparation for publishing. I’ve only read bits and pieces of these books. Occasionally, I would help her with syntax and phrasing of things but our writing styles were/are very different. My words tend to come out like my thought processes; sometimes more flowery and philosophical than others, and more often than not, a stream of fragmented phrases and thoughts at times only intelligible to myself. One thing we both have in common, run-on sentences. We both love run-on sentences!

I cannot express how terrible I feel never having read her books while she was alive. I’ve lost count of how many times she asked me to. I feel like I let her down. Logically, I know she understands. The subject matter didn’t interest me much. I’m not the voracious reader that she was and the books that I do read lean more towards thrillers, detective/mystery, and sci-fi/fantasy novels. The occasional book of poetry (here’s lookin’ at you Chuck Bukowski) smattered somewhere in-between. I have little to no affection for romance novels or books of the like, save for Jane Austen. (It’s here that I admit that I did read Fifty Shades of Gray, but only the first one, and only because I bent to peer pressure.)

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Side Notes & Resting Bitch Face

Side Notes & Resting B**** Face

Please don’t judge me if I have nothing cleaver to say

I struggle with (what I assume most writers struggle with) a severe case of writers block. I am hypercritical of anything I can, could, would, or should think of to say. Let’s face it. Everything that’s worth saying has already been said. Any idea worth having has already been had. Unless you are that one in a billion who strikes originality, it’s basically a matter of, can you way what’s already been said better than those who have said it before you?

To clarify, I do not consider myself a writer. I have dabbled in short stories and creative writing in college and enjoy putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), but I am not a writer. I do, however, wholeheartedly believe that I am better at articulating my thoughts, feelings, or emotions via text. Enter Side Notes & Resting Bitch Face.

About Me – A Catalyst to Starting this blog

A bit of backstory and context.

My grandmother passed away last month. It is the single most difficult thing I have ever had to process and trudge through in my life.  She was my closest friend, my fiercest ally, and strongest support system my whole life through. These things never faltered, never wavered, and were never questioned, tested though they may have been (we were all shit head teenagers once, were we not?).

Since her passing there is an interminable void in my life. My psyche is fractured. Little pieces keep falling away at the slightest wobble making the rebuilding processes unbearable and somewhat pointless. Greif such as this is new to me. I have had other loved ones pass, but none so close to me, or who mean quite so much to me.

Reality seems surreal to me now. I must be living in a horrible parallel universe; one where God has a sick and twisted sense of humor. Perhaps this universe has no god. Perhaps Chaos and Erebus have swept through like a sickening and thick fog, unraveling all that was, is, or could be good and wonderful. Perhaps this is a nightmare. I would gladly accept any of these to be true if meant that somewhere there was reality and in that reality, my grandmother was still alive and with me.

I say that my grandmother’s passing is the catalyst for starting this blog because she was the writer in the family and always urged me to explore writing more (more on that to follow). So, for her, I am writing. Writing my way through hell to see if I can make it to heaven to say “Hi” and back to earth to wade through life and the ambiguity of the future.

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