Evidence

Here, on the internet, I was accosted and asked for a professional website. I told someone writing is all I do anymore, that I hack around day and night on computers and scribbling in notebooks, hoping to pluck some divine inspiration out of daily experiences. I told him I’m scared it won’t be allowed, that I’ll be forced to do something else that isn’t writing.

And this writer says to me, “You’re not a writer!”

And I say “Yes I am!”

So this person says, “Alright – well who’s your agent?”

But I guess I don’t have an agent, so I backed down, which is notoriously difficult to do when someone is wrong on the internet.

Which brings me here: I decided it was time for me to gather all my writing in one place so all the people who cared could come and look at it. I didn’t want a myspace because those things are trashy. I didn’t want a livejournal because those things are dramatic. Facebook certainly wasn’t going to take care of this for me. (I should add I have one of each of these and I’m not above my generation’s hyper-textual e-existence, I’m just slightly embarrassed of it).

So in a world where every single human being can tell a story, I have an insane hope I’ll be especially good at it. It shouldn’t be too hard though, considering every college-student I know is imitating Nabokov bombastically without any of the humour, or edging out worlds where vampires kill babies and set haunted houses on fire with no consideration for anything but (amazing) plot twists. But being kind-of good at writing won’t get you anywhere. I want to be an excellent writer. I want to throw away drafts and have strangers pull my crap out of wastebaskets because they accidentally caught the first sentence. I want boys who would otherwise not talk to me to be utterly won over by my buttery sentences. I want penury that’s bohemian in nature, like those people who collect type-writers even when they have expensive, skinny computers they can save their work on. I want to be mentioned in other people’s autobiographies. I want other people to note that they were mentioned in mine.

This is the place – the little internet lawn where I lay out my crap like a garage sale. Look at it, touch it, offer me advice. Don’t steal it, because just like most used junk people sell at garage sales, its value is sentimental and thus not as cool in your hands.

I’d also love if you dropped me a note or a comment here to let me know you’re reading and how you found me. Feedback is always good, especially on my stories. Go ahead and just leave a note here about anything, but if you’re stuck, write me about the stupidest thing that’s happened to you.