The Fog
A daily occurrence plaguing my very existence, frustrating me every hour — the fog. An internal menace seeps from my brain making my computer, keyboard, notebooks, and pens run dry — the fog. The darling killer, idea smasher, and writing disaster — the fog. I feel very alone in it, isolated in my own little pitiful world. I feel lost and unseen in it, aching for the same pieces of notoriety and applause I see fellow writers receive.
The fog makes me feel like I’m nobody. The fog makes me feel like I am blocked off, empty and cast aside. It is a lack of ideas, it is the worry that nobody sees my work, and the pain when the numbers roll in and tell the whole truth — the clicks are there, but the readership is not. (If it is, no one has anything to say.) I am in the fog, lost in the deafening silence of natural ambience and an unclear path. The atmosphere is thick and full of cloudy substance, and I’m stuck on the boat desperately trying to find any direction possible. I’m paddling with extreme fury, going around and around in hopeless circles. What is my destination?
Frustration. I have ideas but they’re not coming out right. They sound funny, witty, and interesting in my head. They begin to instantly rot and go flat when I write them. In this foggy space, few make it to the point of me giving them “life” via publication. The computer is slowing down, the GIF I want cannot be found, and whatever I have (ADHD, depression, lack of ambition, who knows?) is suddenly holding me back. I’m not alone, but I’m not getting where I want to. I’m putting myself out there, but am I getting looked and picked over? I’m almost 40. When does the message get out? Was my pessimistic, “real and direct” ex-boyfriend right? Well, he never read my work anyway. He found a letter I wrote and said it sounded like Donald Trump wrote it. Ouch. He was indifferent to my poem about meeting him. I lived with him for a year and heard no comments on my writing, other than “I’m not going to give you the extravagant reaction you want…”
Bro, fuck you. I just wanted somebody to read my shit and have a discussion. I’m not asking for pity, for an over-the-top reaction, or fake applause — just consideration. I want to be counted as a writer, PERIOD.
(Meanwhile, Mr. Scifi ripped apart my idea about a space mystery where the detective could pull stuff out of thin air. I guess that counts as “discussion”…)
It’s pushing away and feeling defeated for not working on my craft. A pang of burning guilt, if you will. Feeling left out because I’m not as “there” as I used to be. Am I a writer anymore? Was I ever? Why isn’t it easy anymore? I feel separated from the one thing that used to make me feel good and expressive. For some reason, I’m thinking of Border’s. Remember Border’s? A literary escape shoved into the corners of my city, full of comics and stories and clearance rack knick-knacks that emptied my wallet in seconds. A place where writers sometimes came to read their works. It was home. There was always something there. I aspired o someday find myself on those shelves, revered and adored for $19.99.
Giving up. The fog is when my brain completely stops giving me ideas. The fog is when I feel the urge to push away from my desk or start looking up something else. It’s cringing at hanging manuscripts and ignoring drafts meant to be posted months ago. The fog is ruining my literary life when all I want to do is write, reach, and sip orange mandarin tea in a simple country home. It is feeling like a walking contradiction: I have so much to give and write and create, but at the same time I have nothing and nowhere to put it. I have no audience to share it with. Perhaps more watchers who are afraid to reveal me to the waiting world.
It would be nice to pay my bills by writing — I aspire to be in that space — but I want to reach avid readers and digitally inclined folks. Folks who commute and want to look at something other than entertainment news. I want to reach out to fellow moody eccentrics who may cope with humor, nonsense, and plushies. I want the introverts and homebodies who dream and drift. I want them coming back for more because they like me.
I want to live the successful and smart dream that the little 5th grader tried to manifest decades ago. I want to be the wildest dream the 17-year-old buzzed about between Norah Jones tracks. I want to see myself in somebody’s bookstore well-dressed and makeup’d to the 9s, reading passages of poems and stories to a wide-eyed crowd of fans and admirers. I have the absolute audacity to want it all, like I’m special…despite feeling very stuck and very small in the thick and walled-in fog. It was there before Covid-19 but wasn’t as thick. It became Silent Hill thick once I found myself in the house far more often. I like the house, my family, and the gift of time to write, but my adult life has been plagued with clipped flight feathers and anxiety-ridden self-sabotage that have crashed right into my soul and spirit. I ofen feel powerless and destroyed. In the fog, I am blind and stuck.
I want off the boat, out of the fog, and a righteous passage onto land.
Never giving up. Nichiren Buddhism has taught me never to give up. How can I, if I feel like I have something to say? How can I, if I feel like writing is my calling? Why does it seem so easy for everyone else, but harder for me? Why does it seem like other creators have stories and worlds and foundations? Maybe I do have the golf applause and a few shares here and there, but is that it? Why do I keep starting and stopping with projects? Why is inspiration often clear as day, but sometimes the execution and reception are not? I’m thankful for anyone who sees me and feels me, but I want more!
The audacity.
I want more.
The fog makes me cry sometimes. Frustration, anger. I’m better than this, I should be more confident than this. I should not be comparing myself to anyone. My advisor told me that everyone feels like they’re in the fog. Do they really? Are we all in our respective boats with oars in hand, swinging at the confusing, heavy, and blinding atmosphere? Of course. It goes beyond writers. The fog is everywhere. After the tears, what will we…I do about it?
Comparisons. You aren’t supposed to compare yourself to other people. You’ll really screw things up spending so much time comparing. It’s only easier because you’re on the outside. You aren’t looking in on their processes, struggles, or their foggy moments. You cannot do what they do. Stay dedicated to your path. What if it feels like you’re on the wrong path? It doesn’t make sense no matter what you do. You feel so unseen. It’s like those old school films — the scenery looks so nice, the characters seem to be going places, but if you get too close to the “horizon” on the path, it ripples. It ripples like the painted cloth it really is. No, you are not outside in the park — you’re in a closed-in space with barriers all around.
The fog makes me feel tired, jealous and lost. The fog makes me feel empty, old, and like a pile of odds and ends nobody uses. Those odds and ends get used when people remember they’re there. Comparing escalates everything. I try not to do it but often find myself helplessly engaging. I find myself tearing apart everything about me. I suddenly forget that writers come in all shapes, sizes, ages, and genres. Isn’t that time wasted, comparing myself to the vast and endless space?
Breaking free. I want to break free from it. I want to be inspired and “churn them out” like I used to. I want to stop feeling lost and left out, massaging my temples because I feel invisible. I want to step over doubt and right into my purpose, manuscripts in tow. I want to prove to my father that it was all worth it, giving back some of what he gave to me. He gave me the entire world. I can’t just give up because I can’t see very clearly right now.
The fog has put me at odds with the one thing that got me through the worst moments of my life. This is a relationship that goes beyond romantic flames and lusty paramours. Perhaps it is not fully a foe, but rather a challenge to the bond. It’s easy to look outside and compare, but harder to face the music and sort out the problems. What is writing without a series of blood, sweat, tears, and idea-based emptiness? Writing matters to me, and maybe that’s why I’m here griping about the fog. I hate it because it’s forcing me to be isolated, on my toes, and without my usual branched-out plans. I am blindly walking on faith and a burning desire to keep going.
Perhaps the fog will make me stronger in the end.
About the Author(ess): Veronica is a Chicago native who currently lives in Paris, TN. She is an aspiring writer who writes poems and short stories, as well as short articles. A self-proclaimed “night owl”, she can often be found sipping dark roast coffee and tapping away at her computer.
[IG: naturalprose]
[Twitter: MzWilliams08]
