Writing is Easy

Hi! This is the first blog post that this site will see. Until now, it’s just been fonts and background pictures, little social media buttons and menu options… all those things that the person behind these words has to tweak before the actual content can begin.

…I should probably begin then.

Let me you tell you something, reader. Writing is easy. Putting letters together to form ideas is the simplest thing to do. There are no limits, no rules. if i want to start writing without punctuation theres no one to stop me I COULD EVEN WRITE ALL IN CAPS DESPITE IT MAKING ME SOUND LIKE IM SHOUTING OUT THE WINDOW I COULD THROW GRAMMARTHAT IS GOODER EVENICOULDGETRIDOFALLSPACESANDCOHERENTLANGUAGELALALALA

And who could stop me?

Writing in itself is easy, it’s writing something worth reading, creating something where there is an audience, that prompts a challenge. It’s not hard, my art teacher always told me to avoid saying “It’s hard!” because that will instantly mess with your head. “It’s a challenge.” He’d say. A challenge can be bested.

Writing for others is a challenge.

Even now, in this very blog post, that sits in a blog created a day ago, whose existence is still unknown. I’m still standing on a stage; concert hall just hasn’t filled yet.

The fact that you’re reading this means someone has arrived.

Let me tell you a story.

The protagonist here isn’t a superhero, or a teen that’s in way over their heads, or a heartbroken widow, or a surly alcoholic.

The spotlight here is on a child.

The child doesn’t just make messes and inappropriate comments. This child confers seriously with its friends about how when they grow up, they want to be the president. The child’s friends want to be singers, astronauts, secret agents and chefs.

The child spends its days constantly entertained, and with energy that seems to never run out, they laugh obnoxiously loudly and they go to their room and do what makes them happy. They go to their mother when they’re frightened or need help. When they feel tired, they collapse wherever they are and nap.

They live with their eyes as wide as they can possibly go, so they can absorb the fascinating world around them.

Hate to tell you this, but this is one of those stories.

The child dies.

At least, it’s hit in the face by something that has unanimously been named Adulthood.

A poison named realism is injected into its veins.

Suddenly, any echo of the joy and the wonder in their little hearts is scathingly branded silly.

Right then, being the president is ridiculous and sleep is overrated. Fun takes the backseat, if not stuffed in the trunk, because there’s no time anymore. Upon the industrial conveyor belt of life, one must study, get a job, one that pays, and make it until the next day. The whole time, they look forward, and they say, “Someday…” and all their dreams will come true. They have to ride the conveyor belt to reach these dreams, to reach that Someday.

That child isn’t just me; it’s most people.

In my case, the child was a storyteller. The child spent hours upon hours with her dolls and stuffed animals, each with a name and personality. It wouldn’t be strange to find some of them hanging off the roof by a jump rope, waiting to be rescued, or submerged in the flooded sink on their day off.

She didn’t die all once.

Still, she’d live on through school years, popping up between classes to write about a dragon flying atop the mountain outside the classroom’s window.

But then it was time to grow up.

Take these next words to heart, please. You, the person behind the screen, whose eyes are following these words still.

Never grow up.

All this time we spend seeking out that ‘someday’… we drag our feet through all other days because we have to. We’ve stopped enjoying ourselves.

Today is Someday. Today is the day you learn to play the piano, it doesn’t matter if a nine year old can play Moonlight Sonata and you’re still stuck on jingle bells. If you give up, then you’ll just slide right back onto that damn conveyor belt, into that illusion. Today you start to draw crooked lines and sing off-tune songs.

Bring back the child.

Life isn’t here just to get through it, life… well, I guess none of us really know why life is here. But we know death is here too, and it can come at any time. So laugh. Make others laugh. Cry when you’re sad, and kick the wall when you’re angry, then take something from it, whatever good you can find.

Starting is the hardest. The most challenging, I mean. It’s scary, and it is ridiculously easy to put off.

So here I am, writing on a stage that may never be seen.

Your turn.