Oh, hey. The door’s open – go ahead and sit down. I’ll be there in a minute.

Yeah, the door is usually open. Not many people come into this headspace too often, so other than nasty thoughts and obsessions, I don’t really have much to lock out. 

I made us some coffee. You can have mine too if you’d like. I don’t even drink coffee, I just made it for worldbuilding’s sake. 

Well, anyways, I hope you’re doing alright. I know you’re a reader, so it’s not like you can confirm or deny that, but I really do hope you’re in a good spot. Somewhere better than this house of headspace horrors where I try to get work done.

Although, now that you’re here, and since you can’t really do much but listen to me ramble, would you mind helping me out with something?

I will take the inevitable silence as a resounding yes.

If you’re a regular here, you know I’m a half-decent sportswriter. You’re probably also wondering why I vanished once we hit the new year, but don’t worry. You won’t be getting rid of me that easily. If you’re new, don’t worry. That’s all you really need to know for this. 

I wasn’t on a harmonious vacation throughout all of January; I was right here, racking this headspace for a story, trying to fulfill the promise I made for myself. After being drastically less productive around this time last year, I had to publish more and it couldn’t just be sports. My thought process on how to do it went a little like this:

I’ll write a column! This staff loves those. It seems like everybody’s got something irksome in their past they can shape into an eloquent trauma dump. I’ll dig into my bag of personal goodies and soon, I can put pen to paper! 

Almost immediately, I encountered why I don’t write columns: I had forgotten how painful it is to be personal for a story. 

It’s not easy to look into a mirror; now I have to stare deeper into myself, analyze and interpret a chunk for someone else’s eyes, when it pains me enough to carry it alone. If I ever built up the courage to do it, I’d consider my bag of personal goodies far too bland to be column-worthy. All my issues seem to ever be are overblown ankle biters which I should be better at managing. 

Maybe I could write a happy column. This staff barely remembers those exist. Regardless of subject, I can’t write anything now. It doesn’t matter how much I love sports, or my dad, or how many grand personal strides I’ve made recently. I can acknowledge them, and occasionally I’ll allow the tiniest bit of self pride in myself for achieving them.

I simply lack the slightest clue about how to write about it and not hate the way it comes out. Oftentimes, I don’t even know if what I write is coherent, and even if I asked, I’d never beat the paranoia that whispers “they didn’t want to say a harsh truth.”

Columns are heartfelt and vulnerable. They’re a great diversion from sobering news stories and formulaic writing. A story built on a different platform to tell you about something much less accessible: what goes on upstairs. 

I’d love to contribute. To write as successfully and genuinely as my sister. To infuse my personal life with boundless landscapes, silver-tongued storytelling, mock novels, a cacophony of creative writing elements to make it all the more intriguing for you, reader.

Columns are about one’s life, and I can’t write about me. It might be who I’d like to be, but it’s just not me. At this pace, it never will, and I’ll be writing the same news stories until my hands fall off. 

And ideally, I’d be a better host, but I guess that’s not me either.

Sorry. I’m a better writer than this pity party dumpoff. Once you’re out of here, I’ll get back to that comical attempt at a column. I’ll do what I always do: open up a Google Doc, give it a title like “this column will never get done,” add my title and heading placeholders and stare at the blank page for too long. 

I’ll begin and delete a story or two, since it was too bland for anyone else to enjoy anyway. I’ll get bored and play Solitaire for a bit, and then I’ll come back around and try again.

Eventually, something has to stay. I can’t write and erase forever. 

Even if it’s just an internal monologue to make me feel less negative about my writing.