I told a story the other day and realized halfway through it wasn’t my story but my protagonist’s story—I kept telling it anyway. I can no longer demarcate the truths of my past from what I’ve written as fiction.
Every person I have a conversation with now runs a chance of being fictionalized. The other night, I was talking with a girl who said she dumped a guy because he was a “30-year-old writer still renting a place.”
I get random bouts of anxiety throughout the day—a feeling I will never quite understand. I go through a medley of thoughts about my writing ranging from “this is the worst thing ever written” to “that’s a nice sentence” to “what the fuck am I doing with my life?” to “this is the only thing in the world that makes me happy.” I’ve known few greater feelings in my life than someone appreciating my work.
I know there’s very little money in my profession and I’m fine with that. The best part of my day is when I’m overwhelmed with the potential my book has to make people feel something; the worst part of my day is when I’m fearful my book will make people feel nothing.
The other day, someone introduced me to a group of people with: “This is Nick Miller. He’s Internet famous.”
The day I decided to start writing my book was the day I stopped worrying about being judged for the thoughts in my head.
When I’m writing, meaninglessness inspires me. When I’m not writing, meaninglessness depresses me.
Since I’ve started my journey, I’ve received many messages from people seeking advice on writing. Because I’m just as lost as everyone else, I usually respond with the only advice I know to be true: write every day, write as much as you can.
I have an insatiable need to keep moving, to see new places, to have new adventures. I don’t think I will date another girl who doesn’t understand or love the artistic process. Whiskey is my greatest weakness. People confuse me. Nature calms me. I haven’t had sober sex in a long time. I love writing. I believe words have the power to change us all. I couldn’t be happier.
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