Writing about myself is always awkward. If you think about it, it’s just such an unnatural thing. But, I’ll prematurely end that train of thought, inspired on the old adage “why not.” I don’t like talking about myself either, for the same (unelaborated) reasons. It’s rather weird considering I’m a bit of a narcissist, but it is what it is.
Thinking about more boring stuff, I was born and raised in Lima-Perú, excluding a year and a half stint in south Brazil. Moved to the city on my own about 2 or 3 years ago. Travelled quite a lot before and during. My blood type is O-, which means I can donate blood to everyone, but no one can donate to me. And, I use rambling as a way to divert attention, often unconsciously.
I don’t know what I like to do, but, in all honesty I probably just don’t want to put it on words. I mean, who likes subjecting themselves to a label right? I digress. It’s 2 AM and I’m slow frying (is that a thing?) some overpriced chicken breasts I got earlier, on butter because I keep forgetting to buy coconut oil. I think that conveys the idea of me better than anything else. I am also reading a blog of a classmate talking about his extremely irritated bowels. My bowels are irritated too on occasion. I just wanted to share that.
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Me as a writer? I wish I could stop writing now, because a lack of answer would be—objectively—a way better answer than an actual one. Unfortunately, that’s most probably not the purpose of this task.
Sometimes I am able write formulaically and methodically, but I don’t enjoy that. The way I see writing is analogous to knitting a blanket. It should probably be knit in a logically consistent manner. Patterned and ordered. But I’d rather make a jumbled mess full of (carefully chosen) holes and chaos.
Of course, I am currently rationalizing the mediocrity of my own writing. This is because I have been a lazy writer for a while now. Simply spitting every thought that comes to my mind into written words, not even caring enough to polish it up a bit. But, I want to change that. I want to learn more formulas. More methods. More structures. More crutches, to such an extent that they couldn’t be called crutches anymore.
That is me as a writer, someone aware of their own mediocrity, but unable (or unwilling?) to change that. Perhaps I’ll try… yeah I’ll try. That is me as a writer now, a trier!