Writing in a Void
There's this weird being living in my brain who craves both anonymity and acknowledgment, who wants to live in the shadows but be seen, who cares entirely too much about what people think about the body carrying it around while absolutely knowing the amount of time she spends worrying about that is one-hundred-percent more time than anyone other than her ever does.
The cruel punishment of this brain conundrum is the universe, in whatever form you may believe in, gifted me with an overwhelming need to be creative in a world where it's hard to break through the noise, a love for art strong enough to adorn my body with it in the form of tattoos, which completely eliminate the ability to not be stared at, and blessed me with the ability to remember every embarrassing moment ever in the history of my being, and a vivid imagination that creeps into the space where normal thoughts belong.
All that being said, I am just as at fault as anyone else is, not consuming the media I am trying to create, by other creators. No, I have not watched "insert television show here" or that movie that just came out, and nope, haven't read ninety percent of the books on my shelves, let alone watched most of the aforementioned shows and films I currently own. I'd like to tell you that's because I've been busy creating things. But the sad reality is, a great deal of my time is spent either blocking out the world's noise, blocking out my own noise, staring at a blank screen, or watching the same Youtube creators cooking the same food I saw them make already.
This is all to say, I get it. Nobody reads anymore. I don't read anymore. It is also to say, as silly as it sounds if there's a person who writes books you've enjoyed in the past or someone you know who creates things, even if you're not going to read the book or whatever it is they've created, buy it anyway. Show your support. We don't know if you've read it or not. Believe me, I'm not going to track anyone down and ask.