A Day Called Way Back When

I tried to fit in for way too long. I tried to stand right or lean right. I tried my best to look the way I thought I was supposed to look.
If I were to be able to redo or go back and start over, I would look to make my own way.
It’s crazy to think that I have been at this for a while.
My commitment, that is. If I opened my eyes and woke up this morning and found myself at a day from way back when, I know exactly what I would say.

Find your own style. Like what you like, love what you love. Make no excuses for this.
Enjoy your life. Enjoy your fetishes.
Enjoy yourself because there’s only one reflection you see in the mirror at the end of the day.
And that’s you (or me, in this case)
With all my heart, do not be apologetic for being different.

I have been told that I should hang it up. I have been put down. I have been laughed at.
I’ve been told that my style is awful, or that I can’t write to save my life.
But I have an argument for that because writing saved my life.
I have been told that I can write all that I want.  But I should never have hope. I should never think that me, or my style, or my way will mean anything to the world.

Okay . . .

I laughed at a comment the other day which, of course, I found in my spam folder. I was told about my run on sentences being atrocious.
And that might be true.
Actually, stream of conscious writing seems to go that way.

I shook my head. I smiled and said, yeah.
Oh well.

I thought about the anonymous sender, and laughed because the need to jab at someone anonymously shows me nothing other than they have some other personal disdain, which has nothing to do with me. Even if this does have something to do with me, okay.
And?

I remember when I started this commitment. I remember my first publication, which was destroyed by critics. And rightfully so.
I mean, it was awful.
Downright awful.
I remember the reason why I started journaling, —and to put this as simple as ever, I never came here to be cool or famous or because I wanted recognition.
I don’t do this for the food and friends.

No.

I think about the artists I admire. I think about the poets that no one loved and, somehow, they became larger than life.

I think about the first poet who stood out to me and how his imperfections seemed perfect.
I think about Jim Carroll and my appreciation for his Basketball Diaries.

The only advice I would give if I were to start over is this: you can’t care about the critics. You can’t care about the insults. You can’t hold on to them, and you can’t change them.

Insults cannot stop you.
We have to remember that insults and critics are designed to do just that – stop you! If this happens, then the regret and contempt in your heart will be more destructive than any insult you’ve ever heard.

I’ve had hate-mail typed and sent to my house. I’ve had this sent to the houses of people I know and love, all because someone hates me.
And?

So?

I have been insulted throughout my entire life. To be honest, who hasn’t?
I started this plan to journal every day, not because I consider myself to be a professional.
No, not at all.

I don’t want to be a professional.
I just want to be a writer.

I don’t care about the crabs in the bucket. I don’t care when an enemy shakes their fist or takes a shot at me.
That’s their job. This is their position in life.
I don’t see much justice in this for them.
But, have at it if that’s what works.

As for the criticisms, is there any truth?
Of course, there is.
Is there truth to the hate-mail?
Maybe . . .

Have I done bad things? Have I hurt good people?
I have.
Then again, and here’s the best about critics and enemies and the accusers in my life, everyone has their own life, their own sins, and their own shit that they have to face.
No one can pass their own test. No one is perfect.

So?
It’s good to take jabs at other people.
Right?
I get that, and yes, I’m guilty as well.

Now, as for what I would do over, or if this was the day I could start over and start my commitment from here, I would only say this: Keep writing.
Keep going.
Keep typing.
Keep putting in work.

Think about the doors your heart has opened for you.
Think about what art means to you.
Think about it like this, everything is subjective to some regards.

What is your reason?
What is your purpose?
Why do you do what you do? Who do you do this for?

So, write on.

I heard about someone looking to start their journey as a writer.
I was asked what I thought.
My best suggestion is “just write.”

That’s what I would tell anyone.

No one is more insecure than I am — at least not as far as I am concerned. I am always afraid.
I am petrified, to be honest.
I have panic attacks when I have to speak in public. I’ve had to run to the bathroom to vomit before doing presentations.

A new friend at work told me that I don’t seem that way to him.
I smiled. . .
That doesn’t mean it’s not true.

We all have our own crazy shit.
I have mine. You have yours.
The critics have theirs and so do enemies.

I’m glad I started this new journal. My recent case has been settled.
My life is unfolding.
My style is changing and so are the times around me.

Either way –
I love my early morning ritual, which is to sit and write.
No matter what.
But for now, I have to go and earn my share.
Work awaits and so does life.
I might not be thrilling and my style may be atrocious –
But hey, at least I never quit.

Enjoy!