I have been crazy inspired by people and places this weekend. I've alluded to this before, but inspiration really is like a drug. It takes you high...high...higher...to where you feel invincible. Ideas come at a record pace only to be surpassed by the next idea. The weekend so far has been spent trying to consume these thoughts, feeding off of them in gluttonous abandon.
One of these finds is the Dear Sugar column over at the The Rumpus, specifically, Write Like a Motherfucker. Seriously. It's brilliant, uplifting and much better than Nike's Just Do It. Get over your aversion to a little colorful language and absorb the message.
"I didn’t know if people would think my book was good or bad or horrible or beautiful and I didn’t care. I only knew I no longer had two hearts beating in my chest. I’d pulled one out with my own bare hands. I’d suffered. I’d given it everything I had.
I’d finally been able to give it because I’d let go of all the grandiose ideas I’d once had about myself and my writing—so talented! so young! I’d stopped being grandiose. I’d lowered myself to the notion that the absolute only thing that mattered was getting that extra beating heart out of my chest. Which meant I had to write my book. My very possibly mediocre book."
"Writing is hard for every last one of us—straight white men included. Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig."
"So write... Not like a girl. Not like a boy. Write like a motherfucker."
Honestly, I just wanted to copy and paste the whole thing. So many of my friends have stories inside of them, and this, my friends, you should read.
*I snapped this photo in the bathroom because I thought the light was lovely.
**Happy belated birthday, Abe.