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There was that one time I wanted to be a journalist.

Oddly enough, reading NYLONDETAILS, and Vanity Fair helped me realize that I wanted to be a  journalist.

Well — when I thought I wanted to be a journalist. I don’t consider myself a good writer — I hope I will be but being surrounded by natural writers, I know I can be better. I can always be better.

I’ve always wanted to be able to tell the world a story. A story that I’m interested in, passionate about, or felt compelled to share. I want to learn about people. I don’t want to learn the facts, I want to know the person. I want to figure out who they are and exactly what makes them who they are. I want to learn about their pasts, their faults, their strengths, their guilts — because there are enough of us that bullshit to show who we are to others around us.

After watching Happythankyoumoreplease, I couldn’t help but relate to Sam. I wasn’t a 20-something man. I wasn’t living in New York. I didn’t  happen to keep a child I found on the subway in my apartment. I wasn’t falling in love with a singer named Mississippi. But like Sam, I just never had a story to tell. His “great shame as a writer is that [he’s] just this suburban kid  with good parents—hardly Dickensian.” As frustrating as it is, inspiration draws slightly from reality. It’s not always that you take an idea from somewhere and make it your interpretation, but it’s the things around you, your experiences, the people in your lives that can affect what and how you write. I don’t have that I haven’t figured out if I have that yet.

I guess the first step is to simply be a writer, right? Just write?

 

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