Create

Being a writer—whether self-styled or laureled around the globe—is a strange thing.

Courtesy U of Ottawa

Everyone has an inner monologue, but a writer’s is different. It speaks in the cadence of an essay. Sipping a strong drink leads you to ponder “the injection of liquid nitrogen into your bloodstream”; a sad young girl standing at a bus stop becomes “the imploded soul smoldering behind the veneer of a Dolce & Gabbana dress her stepmother bought her for Christmas.” Your neighbor’s puppy? “A small cloud of golden fur and paws, engulfing any living thing near enough to share energy and intrigue.”

We’re just wired differently, our synapses preconditioned to firing in such a way as to illuminate the information passing through them with vigor and flourish. We need to create.

With the exception of the few weeks I spent recanting my trip to Florida for a wedding last spring, I’ve done zero creative writing over the past year—nearly two years, in fact. And without a blank Word document to regularly pour my foaming head into, the sound has become maddening at times. I need an outlet. As Chris Hardwick is fond of saying, I need to go out and create a thing. And I’m single, childless, and far from rich enough to wander self-destructively through Hollywood, so blogging it is.

As for the venue, well that’s trickier than you might think. Crooked Straight seems like an obvious choice, given the obvious reasons. But the original intent of the site was entertainment and culture; a place where you could see a scantily-clad, little-known model, download a Kanye album, or watch a funny meme take shape*. The random, probably-boring-to-everyone-other-than-me thoughts in my head? Nah.

[*If Kev, TJ, and I had any real follow-through, this place would’ve been a force in the world of online media. The talent was there, but life and peripherals got in our way. If only blogging had a 30 for 30.]

…but I still have the keys to the joint. And it’s not like the site’s being used for anything else. So, for now, I’ll post here. At least until I find some other corner of the internet to mumble to myself in. Then I’ll leave CS to the ghosts of bikini model aspirations and hood rich rap dreams.

But at least I’ll be creating.