Have you seen my voice?

  I was literally banging my head on my keyboard, and I've got a couple crooked keys to prove it.  My latest column was due.  To me, it was an 800 word count of complete horse shit.  And to top it off, I had no idea how to conclude it.  So, I called a writer friend of mine to help me.  He declined, probably for my benefit because I need to start solving my own problems without the aid of my friends.

  However, he agreed to read it and told me it was good, but I needed to find my voice.  I didn't know I lost it.  It should be so simple as when you put the pen to paper, your inner feelings spill out through your fingers and onto the page.  Well, it's not.  Before I began writing for Chicago-Pipeline this summer, I had writer's block for two and a half years.  Now that I'm trying to overcome it for the sake of my column, a bunch of different feelings are rising in me.

  Anxiety and self consciousness are my biggest burdens.  The moment anything of mine gets published, I bite my thumbs as a nervous habit, hoping it gets good feedback and isn't complete shit.  I shouldn't rely so much on acceptance of my peers, but I feel as if feedback is so important if you're trying to make a career out of writing.  Are my sentences running on a bit?  What words are repetitive?

  But my editor says I write how I talk, and its a good thing.  Maybe she's right.  Then again, I was told I still needed to find my voice.  I swear, if I could overcome all my worries, everything I write would be more natural.  I really want to be good enough and confident enough to just let my words flow onto the paper without hesitation.  I could hit "submit for review" without practically biting my thumbs off.   Hopefully this is something that comes with practice and time and that I can can speak, freely, unafraid.

  This whole time I've been writing this, I've been picking at the 9 key, trying to make it not be so crooked.  And backspacing to get rid of all the 9's I've accidentally typed.

Between the two worlds

  Where does anyone belong?  I don't think I was ever meant to belong in one specific place.  Life would be a thousand times more peachy if I lived closer to both jobs.  Both in Wicker Park, forty minutes driving and a  nightmare to find parking.  I have literally screamed, sweat my ass off, and cried over not being able to paralleled into a spot.  Its pathetic, really.  How something I take for granted in the suburbs because its so attainable could reduce me to tears in Chicago.

  I wish I lived among the grim and glory of those busy streets.  Living atop the hustle, bustle, and erratic flow of the city.  Being independent and establishing a new sense of self because of it.  I've never seen anything as wonderful as Chicago, except maybe the ocean.  But the sea doesn't have two dollar tall boys and falafel.  When I'm sitting outside my thrift store or trend watching over coffee for the newsletter, I feel like I'm a part of this crazy, beautiful city.  I'm sort of not, though.

  And this is because I still live in Berwyn.  I hate many things about Berwyn.  It sometimes smells god awful.  There's becoming less of a border between Berwyn and Cicero, almost as if Cicero is meshing its grim and corruption more and more with Berwyn by the day.  I hate when my mom reminds me its not safe to walk the streets at night.  Which I get the city is no different, but this is my home.  I grew up here and as I got older, it lost its town-y charm and became less safe.  Heartbreaking.

  But this is also where my roots have been planted for the past seventeen years.  This is where I grew from a child with a huge imagination, to a teenage with no respect for rules or boundaries, to a young adult with a hazy, yet optimistic view of the future.  My friends, the food, the local bars, the places I've had my firsts and lasts at.  Its for surely a love/hate kind of thing.  Where you love something so truely, madly, deeply, then hate every bit of its being the next day.

  I'd love to live in both.  When I'm not working, I could escape to Berwyn for a few beers at Cigars, movies with Larry, and just the sheer relaxation I get from time to time of being "home".  Then back out to Chicago for the craziness that is my daily routine.  Run around the store like a mad man, interview a local on my break, and collapse into a blue line seat at the end of the day.

  Does this mean I have multiple personalities or that I'm in love with two places, impossible to choose between both?  No matter the case, I want to find a way to have both my worlds.  Keep my friends.  Make new ones.  Learn new ways of public transit around the city.  Drive my car to get my hometown's best italian ice.

  I want to be married to Berwyn and have an affair with Chicago, and I want both to know of each other.  I want both to accept that just one town can't satisfy me.  I want to be selfish.

Here We Go Again

So I've been meaning to post something in here for ages.  I always start a blog, then get so busy I forget it exists.  There's probably a dozen blogs under my name floating around in cyber space.  My biggest flaw is I change my mind alot, mostly due to surroundings and lack of motivation.  Don't get me wrong, I tend to be super monogamous and a loyal friend, but my desire to stick with projects...well, that could use a little work.

  I have all these brilliant ideas that just never make it to pen and paper (or keyboard and screen).  Especially my dreams, which are always so vivid and epic.  Motivation is common for early 20 somethings to lack.  I should know, I've befriended so many with the same disability as me.  I shouldn't be hesitating when it comes to writing.  Not being in school should give me the drive to stimulate my brain with such an activity.  I find myself just staring at the Zach Galifianakis background of my laptop and thinking, "Why the fuck not?"

  Don't get me wrong, I get absolutely no greater pleasure than writing.  Once I get over the initial hurdle of laziness, I'm golden!  Its like I shut out all surroundings and just go at it...like right now.  It took me almost a month to start a blog.  Seriously, a god damn blog!  A month!  Christ, if only I had the same eagerness to grab a beer after work or waste my paycheck on an entire outfit to pick up a journal!

  I had a day off.  Peeling myself away from the television, turning off my two week long Doctor Who marathon, I began this post.  It also didn't hurt that I had a few friends who were telling me "Dude, start your blog."  I don't blame them.

  They're probably frustrated at what I've become these past couple months.  Watching movie after movie, literally becoming everything I despised: a depressed, slothful young adult with no drive to do anything productive.  I've dumped men for adapting to their parents' basements, too adapted to the point they'll probably be growing roots there at thirty.  I've constructively criticized my peers for becoming one with their couches and listened to them bitch about their melodramatic lives until my brain shut off.  I should really not shut people off when they're talking.  Its just hard when they're talking about absolutely nothing.

  All I've ever wanted was a career doing what I love.  But how can I become an author or a journalist when I couldn't even keep focus on getting my Magazine Journalism degree?  Its exhausting doing absolutely nothing. Mentally, that is.  I'm 22.  I live at home.  I'm lazy.  I must change this.  I must document my life to get the gears going.  Maybe, just maybe, this blog could help me spit on my writers block.  Just kick dirt in the face of my lack of motivation.  At the very least, make me feel like I'm doing something.  Ah, who knows what the future holds, but if I let this blog fall into the Internet abyss like my other blogs, I give anybody reading permission to slap me.