When I Finally Write These Words 

So, here I am writing this morning free-write. I’m doing the thing that I always say I don't have time to do. I made time. And now I'm just… typing away. Any minute now, I will write the words that make me feel like a good writer.

Maybe I'll write a sitcom that saves television. Or make you all cry with an unrequited love poem? Or! I’ll make you cry but also laugh and then later think with some song lyrics! Even though I’m not a song-writer. Not yet, anyway! I might even bang out an outline for a film; a sharp cultural commentary and also pure escapist fiction. What if I wrote a one-act play with inventive dialogue that becomes not only my signature style but everyone else’s? Will I write a novel? That's a novel idea. Ha. Ha. It's good to keep a sense of humor about my naked ambition.

Can you imagine the bind I’ll be in if every genre wants the words I’m about to write for itself? I shouldn’t worry. That would be an exciting problem to have. The words could cement me as the greatest (fill in the many blanks) of my time. (And even future times!)

God, anything is possible! (Not that I have to tell God that…) Ha. Ha. There’s that classic™ sense of humor again.

I am so giddy about the words. They'll be here soon. I can feel it. I stopped typing for a few minutes so that I could drum my fingers on the table. While I was tapping my fingers, something occurred to me. I’d be an idiot not to consider how the words might affect my relationships.

Newton’s law says, “for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” It's simple physics that friends will be so jealous of my writing, they’ll discourage me. Or friends will be unable to compliment my writing, because they didn’t get it. Because it's too over their heads. They are not ahead of their time like me. And at this time, they can’t recognize greatness.

I want to be very strategic about how I introduce the words to the world. I won’t be wanting to keep them a secret.

What if I debut the words in a static past on Instagram with some trending music? Or… no music. Silence. The type of post that doesn't get seen anymore, that is until my post breaks the algorithm.

And when the algorithm breaks, I’ll share my go-to joke that I made up about the word "algorithm." How funny would it be if Al Gore fronted a funk band named Al Gore Rhythm?

Once everyone—those who matter and those who don't—sees my post on Instagram, the words will get shared by the right people in the right circles. The Right Person, feeling bored at some elitist party, will excuse themselves. They’ll scroll Instagram while pretending to pee in a bathroom stall.

They'll hurry out of the bathroom without washing their hands. Then, the Right Person will push their phone into the faces of the other Right People at the party. "Look at these words! We could get rich off of those words! Who represents her and her words?"

The Right People will whip out their phones to text the Important People. The people who make things happen. The people who don’t attend parties, they’re too big-time. When this all happens, I won’t have a clue that it’s happening. I'll be asleep. I’ll wake up the next morning, unaware that I’ve already lived my last day as an unknown literary genius.

The words will make me so much fucking money.

I'll never have to write again.

And isn't that the point?

I’ll have time to fill out the application to volunteer in Australia at a Tasmanian devil sanctuary. Volunteering at a Tasmanian devil sanctuary is normally the type of thing a humorist autobiographical non-fiction essay writer would do on assignment from whatever New York-y magazine.

Not me. Since I'll never have to write again, I can actually go help some tazzies without making a "thing of it."

I’ll give my full attention to those devils. I won’t be distracted, thinking about how to tie the experience to my article – which would most likely be about middle age, menopause, or the male loneliness epidemic.

After I write the magic words, I'll get right out there to LIVE MY ONE PRECIOUS LIFE! I’ll return calls, and shake hands. I’ll head to Times Square, kissing everyone I see. The new sailor in town.

I haven’t been living my one precious life for so long because I’ve been stuck. Stuck waiting for words to come. But they’re so close now, I can taste them.

The words are a bag of potato chips, trapped in the vending machine coils. Believe you me, once I give this thing a big push, those chips are going to fall and…

I will finally be free.

xo, jen