Are My Experiences Worth Writing?
I was watching a documentary the other night and it had shots of East Village and LES and I was thinking, ‘aww… home,’ and was feeling nostalgic for the neighborhood.
And then I thought, ‘wait a minute- I can outside right now and be in it?’ But looking at it through screen and through other peoples’ lenses—my own neighborhood doesn’t feel like MINE. It belongs to millions throughout generations and many eras. It feels temporary even though I have an identity towards it and have made it my home.
That’s a lot like people i’ve been with. I even compared people in my life to the city at one point. One pushed me way beyond my limits and out of my comfort zone yet helped me grow and find my own sense of self in the chaos. The love seemed unconditional and yet I was dropped like a hat. That person was my NYC and my NYC was them.
Everything is like walking along the edge here. Even now, I look at it and know it’s not forever. I could get on a plane and leave tomorrow and it would be like I was never here.
But this is not an original experience. I didn’t discover this feeling. It is a tale as old as time. New York City is a tough love that everyone faces. Young love and heartbreak happens every second all over the world. So I don’t really want to write about this city or characters in my life.
So I guess I’ll just stop writing here, because this isn’t going anywhere.
Three weeks later:
A fellow writing friend—an Australian man who is an aloof, pessimistic individual—and I were shooting the shit one evening and I said in conversation, “ugh, I love men who yearn,” I lightheartedly joked (not really joking). And he replied, “I don’t do that anymore. Too overrated.”
The following day he and I were discussing our writing processes. He brought up the sentiment of “write what you know,” etc. I thought about it throughout the day and later expressed to him that I was guilty of not necessarily writing what I know. I am paid to write others people’s stories, or data, etc… I self admitted in my own mind that it was an excuse and that I am actually just too lazy to write anything personal outside of work.
He responded, “what you know, is not necessarily what you’ve experienced.”
Then I came to the realization that maybe I’m not lazy, and that I just don’t really like writing about my own experiences. I think I like to keep them to myself. Keep the mystery.
Or perhaps it’s a feeling that none of my experiences are original. So why write about a tale that’s been told a million times?
But something interesting i’ve noticed between my Aussie friend and I, is that my ordinary, day-in-the-life stories seem worthwhile to him. He reacted like a kid watching a super hero movie, at my story about an interaction on the subway. What can I say, subway interactions have desensitized me, so they seem typical now. But somehow even my common remarks and unprecedented comments intrigued him.
One night, he pointed out these little things I said and it made me feel original, for once in my life. I felt like what I have to say is actually worthwhile-and that I brought out a feeling in him, a spark of sorts.
“Did I make you yearn again?” I teased.
“That’s the power of writing, Sadie. If it successfully reaches one person, then mission accomplished?”
I haven’t heard from him in a few weeks. He dropped off the grid. Probably got knocked in the head by a kangaroo or eaten by a giant spider.
So now, here I sit wondering if my point of view is worth sharing, yet again
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