Here’s To Never Discovering Who I Am!

EMMA ODDO X HEARTLINE PUBLICATIONS

I find comfort in blending into the ChatGPT-ification of our current society and letting the internet do my thinking for me. Like when I find myself so overwhelmingly invested in this TikTok chef's one-pan recipe for penne vodka, I wouldn't be able to tell you if the sky is blue or grey.

I pick the lint off my 2-day-old track pants that I'm sure would emit a peeling sound if I tried removing them from my body at this point. This wasn't intended to pan out this way. This is my life.

Little Emma didn't write short stories that would definitely be rated for "mature audiences only" if submitted to any reputable publication for nothing. My childhood blended into an array of create create create and show off show off show off.

I figured the ability I had to produce indescribable feelings onto a piece of paper would find its way to some big publishing exec, and there I'd go, a world-renowned lifestyle writer to the stars. But of course, I was presented with a shot of reality and a teaspoon of anxiety to thrust me into the formidable years of adulthood.

The rejection letters popped into my email not even thirty minutes after painstakingly strenuous applications and verification checkpoints. The ever-knowing older relatives scoffed and narrowed their eyes at every family gathering, even though they were nosy enough to ask, "So what are you doing with your career after college?"

The constant writer's block continues to reign terror in my brain as it jousts in medieval style with my anxiety to win the prize of wasting even more of my mental space.

Now, if that isn't more mood-crushing than an SSRI to a libido, I don't know what is. But still, I feel that same surge of creativity flow within me from when I was a little kid writing for no one's eyes but my own.

I feel this bubbling of something profound within me, this need to shout from the rooftops how much I love creating things and connecting with people. It's something innately within my bones ready to burst at any given moment.

However, does the tree still make a sound when it falls if no one is around to hear it?

And do I still have talent if there is no one around to notice it?

As I sit on my lumpy mattress, currently writing this, I'm switching from this tab to Google, searching for synonyms of words I'm currently using to mimic the great writers of our generation.

I still sit here aiming to reach a large collective through fanciful, hard-to-pronounce words and confusing allegories. I don't have the best vocabulary, and I rot my brain frequently with adult-rated cartoons, and I don't read a dictionary every morning over a cup of tea with just a spoonful of honey in it.

No.

I order cold brews with artificial seasonal syrups and aerated milk on top, which is worth an entire extra dollar. I like to drink vodka, hold the seltzer, and smoke an entire pack of Marlboro Reds with my friends while pretending we're high-class French women who maintain their size 2 waist by having one cancer stick and a Junior Mint for every meal.

I cry excessively at everything and take offense to most things people say to me, and a lot of the time, I say the wrong things and mistake kindness for weakness.

But I do have a story. That is the one thing in this scary and uncertain world that I am certain about. A story that I know will help a collective of young girls with no plans on a Friday night because the trio friend group they're in decided to exclude such a magnificent soul as themselves.

A story that I know will brighten a lonely father's day after he's left with packed suitcases as his daughter prepares to leave for college. A story that maybe I could've used when I was a little girl, alone and afraid of being seen by the rest of the world.

So I'll hold myself to that notion. Even though my bank accounts only see deposits from a minimum-wage deadbeat job, and I forget that Medium exists, then remember and go on an ADHD posting tangent, and I've single-handedly been rejected from quite literally every establishment, I'm meant to do this.

I am fully equipped to share my voice, whether or not the audience is a mere two people clapping for me or an entire theatre of people cheering for a standing ovation.

Humans die, and all their attributes fade with it, but their ideas live forever. And I have a lot of ideas.

Become a Writer at Heartline Publications🤍

Welcome to Heartline Publications A Home for True Storytelling