I want to be a writer, so I am starting here, right now. This won’t mean much to most people, and it definitely won’t be the biggest hit on this platform, but for me, it will hopefully be the breakthrough I need to realize I can write, post it, and keep going. The first one is always the hardest, right?
But what did it take to get me to actually start writing? To get the audacity to sit down and put my words to paper and imagine that finally this will be good enough to be published online for the world to find (if anyone even digs deep enough to stumble upon this)? Well, I needed to do something even more taboo than sharing my thoughts, and that’s doing a public activity alone.
So where am I? I’m at a winery, by myself. I grew up on a winery and after getting off of work on a Friday evening to an empty house, this felt like the most obvious spot to come to get the first draft off my mind. Drinking a glass, then two, then probably three, getting more confident, feeling the tannins and acidity on my tongue. Is anyone else holding the wine on their palette as long as I am? Knowing that people are giving me looks for lugging around an Under Armour back pack at a very upscale establishment. I’m not wearing Ralph Lauren, purchasing three bottles at a time, then sharing them with all my friends around a big arrangement of cheese and crackers. But honestly, it still feels like I’m in the right spot.
I only questioned it about five times on the way here. I had time to turn around, go to the gym, work hard to not think, too tired to write at night. Why would I go somewhere public and alone after a long week of work, on a Friday at 3:30 when the sun sets around 4? But when you get the urge to go somewhere in order to do something very specific, you need to listen to that inner feeling, and so I am here. This is me fulfilling my desire to write, and whether it’s good or not I am going to post it because I want to be a writer and thus need to stop being so cowardly and actually start somewhere. And that somewhere is here, at a winery, alone, feeling very much like the wallpaper must at a Ritz Carlton. Is anyone else here even looking at the leaves drift off the trees, noticing how the sunset makes the mountains look hazy blue, or feeling the live music reverberating from the amp, up the chair leg, into their stomach? Or are they all too busy talking about their day, their relationships, and how busy they are, like I used to.
Do they feel bad for the girl sitting in the corner, strapped to her laptop like I’m actually the workaholic that can’t escape, came here for the alcohol, typing furiously to get these notes to my boss on time. Are we both judging each other? I doubt it, probably just me. But look at all this thinking getting me to a page of writing already. Maybe when I finally reach a whole page I’ll buy myself a pizza from that food truck over there, a fourth glass of wine? But what am I even writing about?
Two things I think. First, doing things alone. From my first hand experience I need anyone reading this to know that it isn’t as bad as society makes it seem. In fact a lot of authors write from the solo perspective in pubic places. Jason Wilson at a small foreign cafe, tasting luxury for the rest of us to read about, or Patti Smith at another divey diner with a hot cup of coffee. It’s good for you, but not enough people know that, and the ones who do are not the popular crowd, that group travels in a pack. Second, I am writing to say I am writing so that I have writing to post on the internet. In this way, the next time I write and it is of actual value to society, I will not be afraid, because if I can publish this rambling mess, I can publish anything. So thank you to this mess. And thank you to doing things alone. And thank you to the live music, and familiar sweet smells of this vineyard, and to my gut for dragging me here. I think this is gonna be it….