May 5, 2008

First of all, let me just say that this is really hard for me. I don't like to talk about or acknowledge my feelings…at all. It's something kept in my head at all times, mostly because I don't think anyone else would care or recognize them as valid and not dismiss them as ridiculous. Even online, I stick to talking about trivial things like who's going to be the next American Idol or that great episode of Medium. Basically, useless things that don't mean shit.

I seem to be obsessed with non-reality. Ever since I was a teenager, I wrote fanfiction constantly. Whatever TV show or movie I happened to like, I would quickly get online and continue it in written form, with the idea that always popped in my head. I always thought it was because, well, I'm a writer. Have been since I was eleven….well, if not, then middle school definitely. Now I think it might be because I'm itching for a way to somehow extend that sense of suspended existence. That feeling of false bravado, that while in the real world I'm this insignificant bug, online I'm a great writer that's respected.

Just call me freakin' Hannah Montana.

It really does seem like I'm a Disney Channel character copy cat. To others I know, I'm not to be bothered with. And really, who can blame them for not wanting to be around someone who is always boring as sin because she's stuck in her own fantasy land. But online, I'm the fanfiction writer that over ninety people have on their favorites list, and over eighty on their alert lists, who people actually personal message once in a while because they like one of her stories so much.

But in the grand scheme of things none of it matters at all. Because the Internet, the place I feel most comfortable through writing, it just doesn't matter. None of it has any consequence on my waking life – it's like a wonderful dream that sucks you in, then spits you out once that alarm clock goes off. None of my family knows what I do, not even the few friends that I've managed to hold on to. So if I write something I happen to think is great (yeah, right) they can't put pressure on me to write more…but more importantly, if I write something awful or weird, I don't have to worry about their disproving looks, that they might advise me to spend less time in my fantasy and more time in reality.

Because they don't need to tell me. I know I waste the majority of my time on fanfiction. Hell, it's not like it can ever help me in my future life…you can't make cash writing about the ideas and characters of television writers. Once in a while I do try to write original work, maybe start a novel or churn out a short story.

Then once I'm done with a few chapters, I sit back, I read it over…and I'm disgusted with myself. The plot is thin, the writing choppy, characters all boring and plain. Words that flowed so easily out of the mouths of prefabricated characters fall flat out of my own. It has no fluency, no "umph," nothing. It's nothing.

Still, I post it anyway. Maybe it's not as bad as I think. Who knows, maybe it'll catch on with the website community and all my years of struggling will pay off.

Then I do. And nothing. Hardly anyone replies, and when they do, it's numerous critiques thinly veiled by "good start, keep it up!" What do I do? Like a coward, I abandon the project immediately. Run right back to my safety zone, where I hurriedly post anything and relax when I get my cheap, good review fix. Because with fanfiction, no one cares about quality, just as long as they get to read about their favorite characters, since they want so desperately to continue that reality as well.

So what do you call a writer who can't write her own stories?

A hack, that's what. I'm a hack. A useless, talent-less hack who will never, ever make it as a professional writer despite years of practice. But that in itself is a problem. While I do suck at writing my own stuff, I can't even begin to imagine trying to succeed at anything else.

Yet, knowing I suck, I can't seem to stop. It's been a part of me so long that I don't know what I would do without it. What else would be able to keep me from thinking about my pretty pathetic existence? What else would keep me from feeling utterly alone in the world?

What else would help me keep up the false belief that maybe, just maybe, I really am as perfect as everyone seems to think I am?

Because that's how it is for me, has always been since I can remember. My father died when I was eight, and I've had non-life threatening medical problems my whole life. To my family, I'm the "miracle child," the little girl who still manages to do so well in school despite everything she's been through. The little girl who was in all the honors programs in high school, the girl who made Dean's list her first year of college. Yes, she certainly is a miracle. Never mind that she can't seem to succeed romantically or that she's so obviously socially inept.

Never mind that I'm ignored by everyone else in the world. That no one else sees that I'm a "wonderful" girl.

Of course it's not my family's fault. All they ever did since I was born was love me and spoil me, despite that I was one of the rare kids who didn't want every toy in the toy store. It's my fault I'm this way, and it's not fair to blame anyone else. It's my fault I'm too quiet and shy. That I come with a profound lack of motivation, that it takes a lot for me to get excited about anything…and that when I do, it usually doesn't happen anyway. That I'm awkward in every way, that the rare sentences that do manage to make their way out of my mouth are inappropriate or somehow wrong. That my low-self esteem prevents me from doing a lot, and what I do end up doing, I don't think I did right anyway. That I seem to come with a small degree of retardation – there are times I just can't figure out how to do something simple or can't find something that's right in front of my face…despite my 3.5 GPA. That I fear embarrassing myself every single time I come in contact with another human being, and usually feel that I do. That even among friends or family, I feel unwanted, that I don't belong or am somehow intruding, or wouldn't be missed if I weren't there. That while my report card says otherwise, I really can't muster up the energy to put any effort into college work, and usually end up saving that paper or studying for that big test the night before. That I'm always seeking the approval of others, specifically family and teachers because I've given up on others my age. That I think I'm ugly and probably am.

That every smile or upbeat step taken fades away entirely too quickly. And that often I cry myself to sleep for no reason at all other than to indulge in a self-pity party.

I don't like myself at all, don't expect others to. And it scares me because I'm stuck with me.

Which is probably why I write fanfiction. It's the anti-reality. Not only am I writing about characters that don't exist, but I'm writing about characters that primarily exist in someone else's mine rather than my own troubled one.

So now I'll post this, wherever. Because of my aforementioned need for approval that extends to people I don't even know. I'll dream of it catching on, of finding fifteen reviews in my inbox when I wake up tomorrow morning. But then I won't get any. First I'll feel stupid for fantasizing once again. Then I'll feel guilty for soliciting false sympathy and attention from these people who I don't even know.

A/N: Damn, that felt good. I'm a little better now, actually. Kind of.