lucy-writes-stuff

[lucy-writes-stuff]

A Journey

As I sit here, the click clack of the keyboard lighting my path forward, I find myself thinking back to how this all started; where I came from, where I'm going, how I'm going to get there. I find that when I get lost in these thoughts there's sadness and an edge of wistfulness, as if I'm wishing for something impossible, a spark that has long since left me. I feel that as people we have a duty to ourselves to not lose our past, to remember it fondly and know it has a greater part of a whole inside our body. We couldn't be who we are without coming so far through thick and thin of our own merit. I find myself slowly getting lost in the keys, the sounds they make under my fingers and how they echo off the walls like words that will forever remain unspoken. I might've smiled while typing that, a tiny one but a smile none the less. It's fun being dramatic isn't it? Pretending the world will end if you don't get your thoughts out, if you don't speak what you believe and throw it to the people as if it's worth something. Maybe that's the secret, we all just wish to be heard, or maybe it's just a wish that keeps getting wished. I'm forgetting myself though, back on track.

I remember where I came from, how I started in this space. It felt interesting and new, like something you could get addicted to if you tried hard enough. Who knew words had such power. Life was different back then. I didn't care how the words sounded so long as they got out. The words were there to fill a need and so were the people I communicated said words to. I'd sit for hours, going back and forth with someone across the globe (or in my city), sending roughly 50 words transformed into a sensual sentence that said the bare minimum; I punch you, I kick you, I pick you up and slam you. It was rubbish, but a kind of rubbish that left one enamored, perhaps rubbish that had been sprayed with windex or washed in bleach. I never took pride in those words, I never cared much about them, I never thought past the initial lust filled eyes that sat steady on my head as I clicked 'send'. It didn't matter, as soon as the need was done and I was satisfied my partner and I would say our goodbyes, thank eachother for the exchange, promise more in the future (a promise that would always remain unfulfilled) and move to the next starry eyed individual who inhabited our plane of existence. It was a meaningless life, but it was never a large portion of my life either; I was always busy with other things, college, jobs, life itself, boyfriends. I didn't have time to care. Why should I care about people who didn't care themselves? Why should I give a damn about my writing? Why did it matter? This was here to fit a need, and it was doing it's job.

'Hey, you're quite good at writing. Probably the best I've ever met.' Those were the words that changed it all.

I don't know when it had happened but at some point I began to pick up the tricks of the trade, what to ask a partner, how to build something, how to make an experience that could go above the same old same old. It wasn't methodical, there was no recipe; all that changed was I had begun to care. I had begun to care what a partner was seeking. I began to care what words I put on the page. I began to care about post length, and word count, and grammar (which is funny considering how many grammar mistakes I've probably made in this journal entry alone). I had begun to care; that was the part that mattered. It had stopped being about me and became more about the words. Every story I wrote with someone changed things, every work I weaved, every fantasy I fulfilled, every lesson I learned. It was still exciting but now for a different reason. When I met people who could match my energy I began to realize how tantalizing things could transform if both writers were amazing at their craft. At some point I stopped calling myself a roleplayer and began to refer to myself as a writer. I hadn't written anything, no stories, no novels, no lessons or teachings, but it felt right and correct; like it belonged. I started to find I was at the top of my craft, unstoppable, the best of the best, the cream of the crop. I amazed and bedazzled and beguiled my partners with posts that could enamor and entice. I was told many times that I was good at what I did, and finally some people began to come back like repeat customers. I still didn't necessarily care for the people on the other end of the screen, but I did care what I wrote for them, I did care about the experience I provided; I was a chef, and my dishes had to be made to perfection.

"You should join my group of close friends. You're quite sweet."

Once again, another change.

It had began with just roleplaying, but slowly conversations began to slip their way in, little talks about our days and how life was progressing. It was a knife to my wall that I had kept up for years, spreading cracks through a dam that had stood the test of time. I had always refused to share my outside life with the world; people were scary, killers and monsters and thieves sat in the darkness, trying to find their way into my fold.

Slowly however that began to change. I shared small parts of my life, and others shared the same. I shared little pieces of me, and others shared the same. I shared my heart, and others shared the same. I had found my people, cliques and groups who accepted me for me and celebrated me as a writer. I began to get invested in the people rather than the writing. I began to learn about people's lives like they were stories being told around a campfire, to enjoy the person behind the screen rather than what they produced. I was risen up on a pedestal by friends who I had begun to love, my confidence skyrocketed, I felt like I could do anything. The girl who was once sitting at her computer enjoying inconsequential roleplays with zero depth was gone, the girl who lived to write had taken her place.

"Writing is no longer tantalizing, instead it has become a chore."

I remember sending that to someone one day, exhausted after writing over 4,000 words in a single sitting. I couldn't let people down, yet I seemed to do it without trying, sitting on roleplays that were months old, sending posts that hardly had any quality and instead only had quantity. I had lost my own plot, stuck in a battle with myself about who I was and who I wanted to be. Did I want to be a writer? Did I want to be a friend? Did I want to be the girl who didn't let anyone down? Did I want to be the best? I tried being everything and failed with the grace of a drunken circus clown who had forgotten their routine. I had become a machine. I had forgotten why I started this all in the first place.

There are times in life where we are presented with many paths and we must take one, we can't look back if we want to move forward. We can reverse our decision at a great cost to ourselves, no decision is irreversible, but if you're ever at the same crossroads I was stuck at; take some time, do some soul searching and leave things for a period of time. Focus on yourself and the life you want to live, then once you're secure you can head back and make a decision. I didn't do that. I floundered. I fell. I learned lesson after lesson and squeezed people far too tight. I lost everything in the matter of a few measly months. I was painfully alone, stuck on an island of my own making while people around me continued forward. I cursed them. I snubbed them. I became snobby as if I had learned some life lesson they had all failed to realize. I made fun of those who took the same path as me, staring down my nose with a smirk on my lips as they slipped and fell. I had entered my villain arc, searching for purpose in a world that wouldn't provide. "Don't meet your heroes."

A saying that repeats itself in my ears almost as much as a grandfather clock chimes into an empty corridor. Throughout my time in the writing / roleplaying world I had begun to see people I looked up to. I had never met them personally, but I had heard the stories. They were the best of the best. Legends in their own right. People who could change my life if I ever got the chance to speak with them. They did. They did change my life. They enamoured and enticed and seduced me til I was like a puppet dancing for their strings. I learned from them. I wrote with them. I spoke with them. They lifted me from the cavernous hole I had crawled into and reignited a passion I had long since lost. I had been closed off from the world for what felt like decades at this point, and they had shoved me into the light. I felt how I did when I wrote my first story, lustful beyond belief and begging for their attention. They were the best of the best at what they did yet the longer we spoke and the more I saw of them the more I began to realize just how little the writing actually mattered. I began to realize that even the best writers were nothing if their personality was rotten. I had became rotten long ago and the way that I realized this fatal mistake was by talking to people who were rotten to the core. Villains can be legends too, right? As time went on I began to realize that these people didn't care about me, they lost their care for the person on the other side of the screen. That realization hurt. It killed me inside. I was putting in the effort while they were just along for the ride; using me when a need arose like a dirty sex toy that had been stuffed into the back of a drawer. I no longer reach out to them, and they no longer reach out to me. I've since made new heros who have surpassed expectations but I don't think I'll every fully recover from the loss I had faced in the writing community.

"Friends leave, true friends stay."

There's a lot of sadness in this journal, though maybe that's part of the path. A person can't be who they are without a healthy dose of an emotional roller coaster that hopefully ends on a happy note; the ride is what you make it. In this community I have made an astounding number of 'friends'; I use the term loosely because that is the way it should be used. Every single day I start to realize what it really means to be a friend to someone in an online space. You're disposable, replaceable, a toy meant to be used and abused til the next one comes in. The words 'I love you' have lost their meaning for me, always said too soon and never said for long.

In the online space it always felt like people were drawn to me for less than a moment, and then gone the next. It was a cycle I was familiar with, the promise of another match that was never delivered on; a promise of more that would never come. Most of my friendships have faded away like dust to time; it never stops hurting. Though the one thing it did do was teach me how to tell a real friend from a fake one, a person I should spend time with against a person who just wanted me for what I could provide. I started to put more meaning and time into my relationships in the online space, separating the person from the character they played. There's a life lesson in here somewhere but the only one I can provide is one that's been said time and time again, actions speak louder than words, so pay attention to your friend's actions and disregard their words.

"Value yourself."

It was a journey. A journey that took far too many years and far more tears; Though it was a right of passage to be who I am. I like to remember that the most interesting stories happen over choppy waters and hazardous terrain, that if life was simple and easy we would become lazy in our own hubris, that if there is no advancement then there is no point. I have since stopped calling myself a writer, I've done away with labels. I've given up on being the best, knowing that someone better will always come. I've realized I can't please everyone as some people are unpleasable. I've stopped letting simple words and devious flattery set my ship on a different course, it's more important that I find my own way. And as I sit here, tears rolling down my cheeks as the soft click and clack of my keyboard hums in my ears like a cheery tune, I've since realized that perhaps I write because I want to; not because I have to, not because I'm good at it, not because it's what people want. I write because deep in my soul I want to say something even though I don't know what it is.

I'm happy that I wrote this. It feels like I'm finally putting my past in a box and storing it in a closet, like I'm letting a piece of myself finally rest after it's sat awoken in my head for months. There's not much to take away from this, instead perhaps I wanted to give you a viewing behind the curtain, a look into the art. If you're going through something similar perhaps I wanted to show you that you're not alone and that you'll find your way. Maybe I just wanted to rant and rave at a piece of paper; or maybe I just wanted to write.