That pretty much sums it up. Here I am, all new and junk to the blogging world, a true blogger fetus.
Honestly though, I’ve been writing for years. Admittedly never published, for no reason other than a lack of effort on my part. I write for my own pleasure, dabbling in short fiction and poetry in the wee hours of the morning, death-gripping my favorite mug of French-pressed brew while my thoughts steep upon the page.
My first novel-attempt amounted to 65,000 words of passionately written garbage. No experience. No outline. Only the keyboard-stiffened fingers of a daring newbie who had a vivid nightmare and took to nurturing the creative seeds it planted. After a while, I had become obsessed with my idea, plopping down between video game binge-sessions and junk food to spontaneously henpeck my world to life. During the dead moments working at Taco Time, I would frantically scribe my epiphanies on crumpled receipt papers, napkins and tray liners. Between the local Starbucks, friend’s houses, school, work and the cold darkness of my bedroom in the garage, I wrote every day, a kind of madness growing inside with each and every word I blindly bled. After a few years of ignorant bliss, I came to see my creation for what it was: full of plot holes, flat characters and heinous over-description; so perfect in its cruel irony–a beautiful nightmare.
As an avid pupil of Buddhist philosophy, I can assure you nothing is so surely murderous to a writer’s ego than to concede defeat in such a long-winded creative pursuit. Yet, on the same token, this hellish humbling has done for me what no successfully-written story or poem ever could. After a long while spent brooding this horrifying reality, having scanned time and time again the pages whose delicate contours I had come to know with the fierce intimacy of a lover, I resolved to let go.
I began to read more. To study and practice and learn what I needed to know. I wrote new stories, attempted different genres, tried on new styles like hideous hats and failed more times than I can recall. For a while I had fallen out completely, battling severe video game addiction and poor health habits, depression and drinking. I stopped exercising, gained weight, dropped out of college and made the sofa my home. I ate bacon by the pound when I wasn’t eating fast food or frozen Twinkies, and numbed my soul with hours upon hours of ogling the television screen, as though searching for myself within the fallacy of its depictions.
Then one day, wending my routine path along the Wendy’s drive thru procession, I saw myself in the rear view mirror. Or rather, I saw the ugly creature I had become. A failure doesn’t make a failure, but what I saw there in that moment–two familiar eyes staring out from a stranger’s face as if in mourning–was a flagrant manifestation of failure’s fire fed with jet fuel. What I saw there was the lie which would have inevitably become my coffin. Sitting in the driver’s seat of the first car I’d ever owned was death itself. More poetically, the death of my truth.
The lady in the drive thru window slid a greasy sack into my hands which I then slid into the trash can. I drove to the gym, purchased a membership; 35 dollars per month, paid for three times over by the trips to Wendy’s never made again. That day, I took back control of my life. I have since devoted my existence to progress, in fitness, in my writing and in my well-being as a whole.
I would be lying if I said it has been easy since then. I’ve faced unplanned pregnancy and divorce, shit job after shit job, and experienced complete cataclysm of a world much realer than that of my first novel attempt; and with it the essence of what I once believed my identity. Yet through every instance of turmoil, standing within the throes of reality’s storm, one truth has always remained: I am a writer. And as many a renown author has stated more eloquently before me, “A writer writes because he must.”
So here I sit writing for you a synopsis of my entirety, a genuine blogger fetus.
May you find some pleasure in the seeds of my writings.
I thank you for being here. Welcome to my truth.
-Damen P. Adams
(Sidenote: Any and all support is well appreciated. I would very much love to grow this content to prevalence. If you’d be so kind, click the email sign up link below to follow Small Town Philosophy. I aim to post new content every week, likely between Sunday and Wednesday. Many thanks!)