This, likely, will be my only post unrelated to writing -- whether fiction or poetry or nonfiction or a discussion on the writer's purpose.
I'm up and alone, having just finished some assignments for the newspaper. I'm playing the 'End Title' from Revolutionary Road, a small part of sweeping, powerful soundtrack by Thomas Newman. It, as it always does, pulls me into the contemplative.
Oh, all right. I relent. This will, to an extent, discuss a project.
I'd like to work on a memoir. A good friend gave me the idea, and, honestly, it excites me. At first, I scoffed: how pretentious. Seriously. I'm 22, and I'm just beginning a writing career. What have I done to warrant penning some piece that delves deep within memory?
But then, I realized that it would work. I saw how cathartic it would be.
I think - honestly and seriously - that such a project will help me figure things out. I'm not going to do this simply to get a publication: thought it would be nice.
There is much I need to know.
Why am I here? Will I find success as a writer? Will I find love?
Such questions ring tired and smell of cliches. But they plague everyone. And, on nights like this, they hit me especially hard.
I hope I'm taking the right steps. I hope I'm supposed to be doing this.
My goal: get out there. Make my mark as a novelist. Or something with creative nonfiction.
And, someday, I hope to raise a family. But, again, I cannot be too sure. What if I never meet who I'm supposed to meet?
I hate this. My mind flies toward the future. But what I see may not transpire.
Still, though: I want to accomplish this.
I'm ever and eternally afraid that I will be awash in the vortexes and singularities of perpetual sameness. I will try to pull away, but I will be sucked back in, forever swirling.
Some late night - or early musings - for y'all.