Being a “writer” was an abstract dream I knew I wanted to pursue when I was pretty young. I remember in the third grade my class of doughy-eyed nine-year-olds was given an assignment to write a campfire story on this weird computer program where you could add text to pictures. Now that I think of it I’m wondering if it can be characterized as a glorified caption contest. I loved that assignment. I was honestly enamored with the idea of writing for a living. It was a moment of clarity in my otherwise carefree childhood where I felt something so incomprehensible at the time but would grow into what can be considered a “passion.” However, my love for the written word has slowly been dwindling due to the constant metaphorical haranguing screaming candidly out of every failed job search, every rejected article, every poorly worded tweet, every hastily written cover letter, every inconsequential addition to my resume, telling me to quit being so idealistic and get a “real” career with job security and a 401 K.

“Everybody needs writers,” I used to hear endlessly after complaining for several minutes that the internet has killed the profession I so yearned to discover and explore. Now I think of the writers I admire with disdain and jealousy. Jealous that they got to live in the world before bloggers, before tweeters, before instagrammers, before tumblr, before four-square, before the tons of social media that have hindered not just the writing process but the creative process. Granted social media has also enriched the collaborative process and made certain tools more accessible.

In many ways I just think I’m old fashioned. The most influential writer for me is James Baldwin and there has been no other writer who has stirred within me feelings I never even knew I had and expressed ideas in such distinctly beautiful prose. His words like sweet music echoing soothingly in your mind as your eyes move across the page, but with biting meaning so you’re not lulled to sleep but excited and engaged. That entire era of writers had a significant impact on why I wanted to be a writer and what I imagined it meant to be a writer. Being a writer then was really being a voice, not of a generation, but an idea, a well of ideas. Writers were speaking to each other, holding large scale events, getting involved with more than TV, but with people. I’m not saying none of that is going on now, it was just different then. The kind of different I would have really liked to experience. Now it seems like the country just sits here under a cloud of apathy, too content to ask questions or too self-involved to care.

I wish there were scores of people taking road trips on huge buses painted with rainbows and smiley faces, I wish people sat together in a circle in front of the white house singing about peace and making daisy headbands, I wish people weren’t so removed from social/political conversations, bound by the constraints of 140 characters and/or plain ol’ apathy. I wish more people just screamed at the craziness of it all. I wish I screamed at the craziness of it all.

I’m trapped in the 1960s and it’s hard to get out when it’s so nice and warm there… minus the rampant, unforgiving racism. I’ve been complaining about the lack of togetherness a lot recently, not just writing about it but IRL. I should start a salon.