The Writing Itch and a Love Song for One

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I've got the itch.
I’ve got the itch.

I woke up today and thought to myself for the first time in my entire life: I can write a book.

I’m not saying anyone will read it.

I’m not saying it will be good.

I’m not saying I have any good ideas. I don’t.

However, I can write a book.

I believe that because of what I’ve been able to do here. It’s a productivity thing. I’ve been averaging north of 1,000 words a day for close to a half year. You can fill a couple books with that many words.

There are people in this world—amazing, creative people—who splatter good ideas all over the place. These are how successful businesses are made. How great movies and television shows are made. How the most delicious food is made. And how the best books are written.

They start with ideas.

And that’s kind of a problem, because…

I Never Have Good Ideas

Case in point: My 10-year career as a newspaper reporter prior to my layoff in late 2009.

I could write a decent story when news was happening. Piece of cake. Event X happens. I write about it.

Same’s true of this blog, really. Some life event happens. I write about it.

Easy. Don’t have to think about it. Just tell you what happened and how I feel about it.

With the news, I just had to tell you what happened.

But some days, I had to come up with “enterprise” stories. That means, I have to dig. Find an angle on some random thing and manufacture a good story out of it. Those were my most-challenging days.

The same is true here with my daily blogging efforts. If I don’t have something specific to report on, I have to come up with some enterprise idea. I try to resort to what’s top of mind, when in doubt. To document the journey as best I can. And this is what I’m thinking about.

I Want to Love Myself Again

I stood in the shower first thing this morning. Hot water stinging my neck.

I thought about something I read before bed last night about how a man changed his life by making “I love myself” a personal mantra. By truly learning to love himself again after the rigors of adult life had stolen his innocence.

And then I got to thinking about how shitty I feel sometimes. About how I felt awesome as a kid. Every day. Even with my parents divorced. Even being alone a lot.

I felt great. I was sad when people died. I was sad when one of my best friends moved away. I was sad when I had to say goodbye to my dad after summer and winter visits. But I was also resilient. Bounced back quick.

I smiled. I was positive. I was kind. I was friendly. I loved.

I loved my family. I loved my friends. I loved myself.

Then adulthood hits. Christmas stops being magical. No one cares about your birthday. You lose touch with all your friends. You don’t go to huge parties with a hundred people anymore. You don’t get the same attention from the opposite sex that you used to. Your hopes and dreams begin to die as you watch other people achieve things and wonder what they have that you don’t.

You make bad choices.

The sins pile up.

Your insides get poisoned.

And then you frown a little more. You laugh a little less.

You darken. On the inside.

I’ve spent most of my adulthood believing this phenomenon happens because we have the wool pulled over our eyes as children. We’re innocent. We don’t know how ugly the world can be. Most of us—the really fortunate ones—don’t experience extreme tragedy and hardship as children. Those moments tend not to arise until we’re wading through adulthood. We thought we’d have life figured out once we got here.

Then we arrived. And we feel less ready than ever. Less confident than ever. More unsure than ever.

The clock ticks a little bit louder now.

Tick, tick, tick.

The bottom of the hourglass constantly filling, reminding us that time isn’t on our side.

Then we feel sad.





We search for meaning.

Believers ask: Why me, God?

Some believers stop believing because of this. Why have you forsaken me? I guess you’re not really there at all.

Non-believers say: I told you so. Nothing matters.

Some of us die hopeless and alone.

But not all of us.

Because maybe I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. Maybe the wool wasn’t pulled over my eyes.

Maybe I just really loved myself as a child. Respected myself. Took care of myself.

I chose good over bad. I was physically fit. I got plenty of sleep.

I had friends. I felt purpose going to school. I had goals and hopes and dreams.

But mostly, I had love.

Meant to Be More

I think I stopped loving myself after my layoff.

When I would lay around all day, unshaven in sweats and a t-shirt watching TV with my two-year-old son at home while my wife went to work.

It was a new kind of worthlessness.

I don’t remember how long my wife put up with me, but I should be grateful for whatever amount of time she did.

How could I expect her to love and respect me when I didn’t even love and respect myself?

I came close to getting it back.

In 2011, I started eating right and working out every day. I lost 30 pounds and became physically stronger than I’d ever been before. People would always compliment me when they saw me. That’s always an amazing feeling.

My confidence soared.

I was offered and accepted a job in June 2011, right around my son’s third birthday. I was now making significantly more money than I’d ever made before, plus I had income from my freelance writing business.

I thought I’d finally beat back my demons at that point. Everything felt really good. Back on track.

And then in October, just a few months later, the bottom fell out again when my father-in-law died suddenly. We had dinner with him. He was the same amazing guy and grandfather he always was. Then we left. And got a phone call the next night.

Then my life spiraled out of control.

I lost everything that mattered to me when my wife walked out the door on April 1 of this year.

I fell hard. And I’m still on the floor. I just fake not being there sometimes.

And I was reading that book last night before falling asleep. I love myself. I love myself. I love myself, the guy repeated over and over and over again.

He faked it for a while.

But then the message finally started to sink in.

I love myself.

He started to believe it, because we can trick our brains.

I love myself.

Then he started living like he loved himself.

Took care of his body. Took care of his mind. Took care of his soul.

Because he loved himself. Genuinely.

And then everything changed.

He felt happy again. That really pure happiness we feel as children. Not fake happy. Not drunk happy. Not drugs happy. Not sex happy. Not money happy.

Real happy. And then all the other pieces of his life fell into place, too.

This idea makes sense to me. You say we can’t go back? We can’t have what we lost?

Maybe we can. I’ve never bothered to ask. I’ve never bothered to try.

What if life didn’t ruin us? What if we just stopped loving ourselves the way we did when innocence was all we knew?

And what if starting again is how we get to where we want to go?

Can’t hurt to try.

It’s okay if it feels corny. It’s okay if it feels fake. It’s okay if we don’t believe it.

Because if we just say it enough times, we’ll start to believe it: I love myself.

An Idea Machine

That’s what I want to be. A guy who has ideas. So I can write something that matters.

And to have ideas, I need energy. And to have energy, I need to feel good. And to feel good, I need to love myself.

I like the hot shower first thing in the morning. Some of my best thinking happens there.

I want to work out. I want to look and feel good.

I want to be good even when no one’s watching.

I want to be a better friend, father, son, grandson.

I want to be financially responsible.

And then.

I want to write a book.

I’ve always wanted to write a book. For many years, my ultimate fantasy was to sit in a movie theater watching a film based on something I’d written.

As I aged, becoming more interested in the things that make human beings do human-being things, I began to gravitate more toward non-fiction.

I like simple stories. Few characters. Emotional heartache. Forbidden lust. Poisoned hearts. Ruined lives. Healing and forgiveness. Redemption. Or stories of greed. Deceit. Or simple comedy.

I like complex stories. An EMP attack. The world goes dark. Society breaks down. It’s everyone for themselves. What’s a husband, wife and two kids to do? When the cops don’t come. When there’s no more grocery store. Or pharmacy. Or hospital. Or military defense. Or anything.

I like ongoing stories. Like great television shows or novels with reoccurring characters.

I like books that offer solutions to problems. Books that help human beings become better versions of themselves.

I need to pick one and try. Because I finally believe I can do it. And that’s a big step.

But first I need energy.

Physical fitness. Spiritual wellness. Reduced stress.

And I’ll get that by treating myself with the love and respect I feel for those who matter most.

I love myself.

I want to take risks.

Take my shot.

Choose myself.

Because I miss that happy kid from all my old photos.

And I intend to find him.

37 thoughts on “The Writing Itch and a Love Song for One”

  1. 🙂 Yay! Love yourself. Convince yourself you love yourself. I’m watching. If you can do it, maybe I can.

      1. I’m sure you got it, but I just wanted to clarify that the “Yay!” was for the book. I’ll try to wait patiently from this point forward, but “YAY!” *jumping up and down and clapping hands like a little girl*

  2. Wish you could see my ear to ear grin on this one. I had a similar epiphany 5 months ago, and right now, my “book” is over 200 pages and counting. It’s only a first draft, which means it’ll get re-written at least 4-5 more times before I even allow someone to read it – but it’s mine and it’s growing and it feels damn good. I hope you do write a book Matt. Heck – you can bet that one of your first sales would be from this girl here in Seattle.

    What’s ironic tho, is that I am an ideator professionally. No, seriously. Businesses hire me to dream up an idea for a product and then make it into a profitable business. Been at it for almost 9 years now. I hold over 5 patents on new technology and from a career standpoint – i’m proud of all I’ve done and will continue to do. But let me give you a bit of perspective. Sometimes, being the idea guy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. People start to expect it all the time. What do you mean this won’t work! Dream something up! You end up waking up at 2 AM with an idea for an app or product and can’t get back to sleep because you have to capture this amazing noteworthy idea – only to break it all to smithereens later. Your friends and family get frustrated when you come across something new and innovative because not only to you have to stop everything to learn all you can about it – but then you have to buy multiple of them just so you can take it apart and figure out how it works. I’m known for having started a million different hobbies and side projects but never really sticking to them.

    Cheers to you, my friend. 🙂

    1. I fly by the seat of my pants on this blog. And some people actually like it.

      Who knows? Maybe the same will be true of book writing.

      Thank you for saying you’d buy a copy. That’s kind of awesome.

      Hope you’re having a good day. And I hope I get to read that book someday.

      Oh, and if you have any killer story ideas laying around you’re not going to use…

    1. My favorite part about this is that it doesn’t matter what anyone else does.

      You’re the only one that has to choose you.

      You seem easy to like, sir.

      Love yourself, please.

    1. Thank you for smiling and saying nice things and reading and prompting me to discover more writers. You.

      Seriously, thank you for saying hi.

    1. Of course we can.

      And everyone should take advantage of this trick to improve their lives.

      I’m trying. Thank you for trying, too.

  3. Pingback: Love myself? | Pushing our limits

    1. Well, if I succeed, I’ll have a book and feel good about myself. And if I fail, I’ll have another embarrassing thing to write about.


  4. To write a book, one must have a story to tell. And it is said that we all have at least one story inside us: Our own.

    Whatever else you write, do consider writing your memoirs.

  5. It sounds so simple, but it reality it’s difficult to go back to that place of self love. I guess like everything else it takes practice. I love myself. I love myself. Yep, going to need lots of practice.

  6. Self love is a must.

    I’ve got my own theory about youth. Kids don’t look back. They’re young, they don’t have a past to look back on yet. Adults have the option. We can either look back and dwell. Or look forward; plan, dream, hope, set new goals.

    Write the book, Matt. Then write another one.

  7. Pingback: How to Accept Gifts | Must Be This Tall To Ride

  8. I’m probably too young to be this level of jaded… Hell, I haven’t even graduated from high school and I’m more mature than a good deal of adults that I know. And TINMW, I really like your sentiment. Maybe it’s just me, since I’m not exactly your normal kid, but I look back. A lot. I’m trying to piece the lost little bits of my life together, bit by mental bit. …Maybe I’m crazy, but I want to remember who I was, since who you are is an accumulation of who you were before and who you are now. I want to know who I was then. I’ll work on the ‘now’ bit later.

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