I have nothing to say
by Matt “Naj” Najmowicz
It’s amazing what a month can change. I went from a person who was depressed at his personal situation to a writer with purpose and a possible future. As my deadline bears upon me, I cannot find one prewritten column that I am really happy about; I have nothing. Within this situation there is a paradox: what happens when you are a writer that has nothing to say?
I literally have nothing to say. I was bouncing around an idea about why people were bummed out about Barack Obama. Then I started to write about Rick Perry and why people were fooled into thinking he was the Second Coming. Then I was going to write about the NFL and how the league owners were basically the 1% trying to screw part-time referees out of a pension. At a certain point I realized that people really liked it when I talked about myself, so I dove into that well a bit.
There I was, writing about a party Joe and I went to about six years ago. It was distinctive because of the lameness of the party up until an infamous incident happened. I could’ve written about how I am almost positive that a man I worked with had a crush on my friend Joe, same guy, and tried to keep buying presents for him to win Joe’s affection. Honestly, I have so much material on Joe and I that it would make for an incredible memoir perfect for your coffee table.
There are plenty of stories from my childhood I could bring up. I have stories about dates gone bad that are worthy of a column. I have personal dreams and ambitions that I could pen. All of these ideas are like bubbles in a kettle of water, and I can’t bring myself to let them explode out of me.
Is it writer’s block? I don’t think so. Most people that talk about writer’s block usually don’t have any ideas. Not to be a braggart, but my problem isn’t a lack of imagination or lack of interesting topics. Instead, I just stare at a screen and then type. I look at what I just typed and say, “This is garbage.” I go through this three or four more times and then I try to take a break to shake off the feelings of insecurity that comes because of this process.
I am insecure.
Despite that insecurity, I have people messaging me saying how much they enjoy what I write. I have emails and Facebook messages telling me how much they love my columns and that I should consider writing fiction, a short story, or even write something more ambitious like a novel. I sit and think if I am capable of writing a novel: if Glenn Beck can do it, I know I can. Where in the hell do these feelings of insecurity come from? I have people I have never met patting my back and eagerly awaiting the next thing I do. They call those fans right? Yet, I sit here and my fingers are numb so certain I will fail.
Failure, it something that haunts me and I am so certain I will end up doing. Despite being given opportunities and achieving with them, I still fret over the minor details. Nothing is ever good enough, ever. I know for a fact when you all read this you may say something to the effect of “I really appreciate your honesty,” or “I love that you have the courage to expose yourself like this to us.” I should be proud of that and be thankful that I get a response. Yet, I am waiting for the comment “you suck, you are fat, you are stupid and I hate you.” No one has ever said that to my face, and yet I wait for it every day.
This is a glimpse into someone who is eccentric and has possibly knotted himself into a ball for no reason. I am not a psychiatrist; I have no idea what goes on in my mind anymore. I do know that whatever it is that inspires me, waited until 5:30 pm to get me to finally type passion. I wanted to type passion all week, and it waited till now to be clear enough in my mind to finally write.
Is this the life of a writer? This is what my future is: fear and trepidation? I should call Paul Krugman or Anne Rice and see what they would say. They would probably ask how I got their numbers and I would reply that I am using my imagination.
I am tired. I am scared. I live in a world that is completely awful in so many ways. Yet my hope lays in my imagination and ability, somewhere in there is a writer. Someday I would like to write something that everyone can be proud of. We will see when or if that day ever comes.
My friend Anne and I were chatting on the phone. We were talking about our paths in life and how much changed for us in a year. I started to go on about how I didn’t feel like my life is going as well as I would like it to. She told me that one day I will spread my wings and fly, she was certain of it.
Could it just be that I am afraid to fly?