I was wondering if I chose to become a writer. For as long as I can remember, I have narrated my life. I wake up in the morning and think “I woke up”. Whereas normal people would just get on with their lives and choose the things they want to be, writers don’t actually choose. We are not made, we are born. We are filled with worlds. We are filled to the brim with smart dialogue, and tri-dimensional characters. When we want others to experience those worlds, we begin writing. Maybe we don’t even want to share our world, we are just searching for someone to listen. We narrate our lives, because we’re used to. We see everything from a third-person perspective. Sometimes we’ll find ourselves with no option left except to return to reality. We hate reality. Why should we accept what the world gives to us? Why should we accept the fact that we cannot fly, or the fact that we’re not 15th century samurai, or the fact that we may never find true love? We shouldn’t. We can’t. We revolt. If you care, you join the revolution. If you can’t write, you read. You read until your eyes are tired and then you go to sleep and then you read some more. We keep writing. We keep writing about dragons and robots. We keep writing about the insides of the mind and about love and sex and the girl we like and the girl we hate and beating up the guys we cannot stand because they somehow think they’re better than us and how it feels to kiss someone for the first time and how kids laughed at us when we were younger just because we were fat, or ugly, or socially awkward. We hold nothing back. We don’t care about you, and your friends and your lovers and your one night stands and your fuck buddies. If we want to we will write about you, and some day your neighbors will talk about that new book and begin narrating your life story. And you will know that we wrote that book about you and never tell anyone and it will be our quietly kept secret.
You can start by being my quietly kept secret.