When I was 20 years old, I met with a co-worker at her home. She moonlighted as a psychic and tarot card reader when she wasn’t working at an under-lit insurance call center. Obviously.
I was young, easily swayed by positivity and charisma, and she told me I had a bright, red aura and a phoenix who followed me around. Which is my persona is every RPG (role-playing game) that I’ve ever played—needless to say, I was hooked.
She played her bullshit game and I latched on to her every word. I asked about my cat who was getting old and sick. I asked about my boyfriend’s mother who was also sick. I asked about my job, my future, where and what I would do with my life. This is where Present-Misty wants to smack Past-Misty across the face ala Batman-Meme with a, “You gave away all the answers! That’s how they get you!”
All of her answers turned out to be wrong in the long run (whaaaaaat?). My cat died very rapidly following the meeting (“Oh, no, he’s fine”) as did my boyfriend’s mother (“Don’t worry! She’ll beat that cancer!”). She expressed joy in stating I would marry my boyfriend (Spoiler Alert: We broke up six months later). She told me I was “in-tune” with my, I don’t know, with my aura-thing, and that I would be able to change the energy around me depending on the circumstances. I don’t know if I have the wrong universal-aura-energy-remote (damn you, Best Buy) but I cannot, in fact, do that.
She also told me that my future career was in writing. She said I was destined to be a writer and that all of my fortune and fame would come from writing. At the time, well hot damn, that sounded fantastic—as I mentioned, I worked at an insurance call center at the time. Answering phone calls like, “Do I have massage therapy?” and, “Why did you deny my prescription to Methadone, please let me have it because you obviously hold the keys to my drugs.”
You mean I don’t have to do that for the rest of my life? All I should do is scribble some garbage on paper and someone will send me a check? Can I do it in my pajamas?
However, a few years later, I watched my older brother go through college to become a legitimate writer. He obtained a Master’s Degree in Fine Arts for Fiction Writing. I watched him write a book that, while some would consider it on the shorter side, took him years to write and a lot of stress to complete. Writing now looked like it sucked and NO THANKS, Psychic-Lady, I’m good.
Eleven years have passed now since I spoke with Psychic slash Co-Worker and I am no closer to be a writer than I was when I use to hang out in bed at 17 years old writing shitty poetry (I WAS TORTURED, damn it). But it continues to call to me and I keep coming back here.
Except, I can’t seem to write fiction like my brother. I can’t seem to get into writing non-fiction like my Uncle. I don’t do very well with comedy pieces. News or Journalism requires far too much fact-checking for the modern, always checking Wikipedia-world and I refuse to write another sparkling vampire-zombie-alien love triangle novel for teenagers.
But writing still calls to me. What is there left to write about? Who do I think I am, anyway? Why would anyone want to read the trivial bullshit that I am going to come up with? What makes me think I am so god damn special that someone (other than my mother who is required by parental law) would want to take time out of their already too busy day to read the words I put to paper (well, screen, in this case).
I’m not special. I’m not a shining snowflake among the dirt. But, I have been through a lot of terrible nonsense in my life. I’ve seen too much for someone who is 31 years old.
So I will tell you those stories. Maybe one of them will interest someone, or perhaps, maybe one of my experiences will ring true for someone else and maybe it will help.
Welcome to the place where I put all of my shit.