It’s all been done before.
Nothing feels original.
Get the spark of madness. Let it stir inside of me for days. Believe it’s the best damn thing I’ve written. Realize it’s been done. Sometimes, it has been written better. Other times, I owned those words. The queen sitting on top of her throne with a gemstone and diamond encrusted scepter in my hand, cloaked in a red velvet cape. The crown of nobility is placed gently, as not to destroy my perfectly constructed coif, on top of my swollen, inflated ego.
After millenniums, all the words and the topics and the debates have been done. Society creates new reasons to agitate each other. There are new wars. There are new ways to discriminate and argue. There are people who make the news for stupidity and ignorance, so turn your focus on the “trending” topic. Tomorrow, I will be told there are suddenly overnight sensations “trending” again. The same routine follows each day.
The trends are the hot button issues and we should take to our feeds. We should shout our opinions. Post. Post. Tweet. Pin. Come up with something to tell the world exactly who I am; what I’m about. Above all, like and love me. If people don’t blow up our notifications, are we really loved? Not enough likes, no problem.
Check out my hook while the DJ revolves it. (I stole that from Vanilla Ice.)
One could scour Reddit and steal some words. Change them slightly, and then they own the idea. A newly manufactured created unique witty status. Don’t you dare steal MY unoriginal thought.
Woop. Woop. That’s the sound of the internet police.
Crack down. Busted. Broke. You’ve dishonored my stature.
Like an only child with all the toys, people scream “NO, IT’S MINE. GIVE IT BACK.”
Dear child, those toys belonged to a factory in China before they were shipped and put onto a Walmart shelf. Another child could have been given that toy and didn’t want it. The toy promptly returned and placed back on the shelf. Nothing ever really belongs to us. Few things are actually manufactured in our minds.
It’s all been done before.
Hollywood is drained of movie plots. Guess what? They pull out the old classics and remake them. They ruin the original casts, sometimes the original idea. They bastardize childhood nostalgia. For what? In the sole greedy hope of making a few dollars.
Hey next generation, PLEASE BUY THE TICKET AND TAKE THE RIDE. See what I did there? The line “Buy the ticket, take the ride” is a Hunter S. Thompson quote from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. But, I added the words ‘please’, and ‘and’. Don’t steal my newly formed totally ripped off idea. I will cut off your thumbs. Not really, that would be bloody and gross. I don’t have the time to hunt you down. But I can throw some shade at you while I hide behind the anonymous screen with a trendy lit up apple on the front cover.
See, I don’t have time to waste behind my screen fussing and fighting either. I’m too busy Googling my next great idea and asking if anyone has written such foul-mouthed beauty intertwined with originality. Because I want to create.
I want to inspire someone else to create. I want to show people that whoever they really are, they need to shine their lights. Blind people with your weirdness. Please for the love of humanity, take something and do it better than me. Out-write my tired bones.
A year after I started writing publicly, a person commented about the amount of words I cranked out at a consistent pace. It is true. I write a lot. My mother says it’s because I’m hungry.
Hungry to prove myself. Hungry to be successful. Hungry to survive as bills I can’t pay pile up on a counter, and I wake up at 3 a.m. I wake up and fret about debt. By 4 a.m. I’m having panic attacks. I ain’t got no other choice but to keep writing. My back is against the wall and I’m standing naked trying to prove I belong here.
“Here?” one may ask.
I’ll tell you where here is. Here is a place where people spit forth their life stories. Here is a place where every person wants to be fucking famous. Here is a place where you battle day end and day out trying to be read. Trying to have a voice. Here is a world where people like me are looked down on. Because I don’t have the right tone. I am the Misfit. I come from a place where people stereotype a region as being dumb. I never found the right circle. And I fucking hate fame and notoriety. I want other things.
“Like most others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top. At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles – a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other – that kept me going.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary
I have the feeling of doom and dread.
I look to my husband and I say, “If I ever have to resort to stealing. If I become an unoriginal. Shut me down. Shut it all down.”
Because I want to do something worthwhile. I want to do something, and when I am done there will be a remanent of me. A reminder of the life I lived. I want dried out pieces of my skin left laying around and I want them to be full of my own captivating words.
I want to own me.
Rachel E. Bledsoe is a writer and an Appalachian Misfit Mama. She enjoys swimming, long walks on the beach, and Marie Antoinette biographies. She is the sole voice and writer behind The Misfits of a Mountain Mama. You can visit her on Facebook or on Twitter @MisfitMtMama.