You Do You, Boo

If Real Freedom is What You’re After, Ditch the Crowd

I’ve always been a journal junkie. Through the years, I’ve amassed a pile of journals tall enough to ride any amusement park ride.

I’ve always wanted to write, but I seldom advertised it. I hail from rural Minnesota, a place that produces few folks who support those involved in the arts. Writers and performers were always considered the weird ones, which is why I reserved this dream for only myself. Being part of the weird crowd terrified me.

Tragically Hip to Be Square

I remember a girl I dated in high school, my first love. Her younger brother, Bryce, was a talented bugger. He consistently performed in local and regional plays. I loved watching him act, and he was a hoot to be around when he wasn’t on stage.

In school, Bryce was continually persecuted about how he dressed and talked and about the characters and roles he portrayed so well.

The problem wasn’t that he was living his dream, doing the things that made him happy. It was that he was different. Where I’m from, standing out from the crowd is the opposite of cool.

Like most other high school kids, I wanted to be hip above everything else. I am loathed to admit this, but sometimes I made fun of Bryce alongside some of my pals. I didn’t believe the nasty shit I said about him, but I went along for the ride cause it wasn’t cool to divert from the group.

At the time, I didn’t realize that I was doing the opposite of what I now understand is cool. To be hip in high school generally means attaching yourself to some pack or clique, while being genuinely chill means doing your own thing and not worrying about what the crowd thinks or says.

I made fun of my girlfriend’s brother behind both their backs. No wonder that relationship bit the dust early. High school can make such dick sticks out of us.

It’s cooler to be yourself than to sacrifice your soul to fit in.

Respect Your Elders

My high school English teacher, who would later become my grandfather-in-law, once told me, “Adam, you ought to be a writer,” after turning in one of my assignments, fashionably late as usual.

I don’t remember anything about the assignment or what I wrote that tickled his fancy. I only remember Ralph’s recommendation, which I pooh-poohed for several reasons, the most significant being writing wasn’t fucking cool, man. That, and other things like drinking and raising hell were much higher on young Adam’s list of priorities.

What the hell did this 60-year-old dinosaur know? Psshhh. That guy wouldn’t recognize good writing if it bitch-whipped him in the gonads.

See, I was an ignorant asshole in my younger days.

Message Received

Worrying about what other people thought kept me from writing for another twenty years after Ralph, who sadly left us one year ago, told me he saw something special in my writing.

I wish Ralph were around to see that I finally got the message. It breaks my heart that I delayed starting until after his passing. He would’ve enjoyed reading my stuff, even the silly bits. The man appreciated good writing and wasn’t afraid to share it with the world.

I was fearful for so long, censoring myself because I didn’t have the sack or skin thickness to handle the criticism for doing something different.

Sad.

Oh My Gawd, Who the Hell Cares?

Now that I’m a budding, infant professional writer, I still feel anxious whenever I hit publish or share my work on social media. I remain friends with many folks with whom I’ve always been scared to display my true colors.

That insecure part of me still worries about what the cool people will think about my opinions or humor. The difference now is that feeling lasts a few seconds before I remind myself to say fuck what those people think.

The proof that nobody really cares what you’re doing shows up every time I share a piece of work on my socials. After six weeks of writing publicly on Medium, I received just one comment on my work from somebody back home. That guy moved across the country many years ago. He’s one of the different ones and that’s what I admire most about him.

The majority of your friends and acquaintances don’t give a shit. They may read and secretly like what you’ve produced, but they aren’t going to provide you with likes or claps. That would make them different, too, and that terrifies the hell out of most people.

These people might poke fun or laugh behind you at what you’re doing while they’re around the other locals, but secretly, those people envy you.

They wish they dared to do what you do. But, just like I was for so many years, they fear what others will say or think. Suppose they show up and publicly like something you’ve written or a video you’ve posted online, or that side business you started. It removes them from the local conversation when people are ripping you for doing something different.

It would make them an outcast, somebody different, just like you. Knowing this, these people consume your work in secret. They might like it, or they might not. Either way, they consult the popular crowd to find the right side to be on.

Are Melissa Etheridge and I the Only Ones?

As I write this, I wonder if many of my new colleagues, my Medium mates, like Jason Provencio, Rusty Shackleford, Kendra Sparkles, Victor Cardenas, Anne the Vegan, Gareth Willey, or Grimsby Hackney, to name a few, have faced similar worries along their writing journeys.

Indeed, I can’t be the only one still battling concerns about family or friends giving me a hard time for getting my jollies by waking up at the butt crack of dawn to write.

As my old boss and former pal Geoffrey often said while in the throes of a four-day bender:

“I’m here for a good time, not a long time.”

It doesn’t take long for people to forget about us after we lie down for the eternal dirt nap.

Sadly, in the summer of 2021, I lost one of my best good friends to drugs. It was one of my life’s most difficult experiences. I still think about that crazy bastard on the daily.

When I whip through the lonely main drag in my hometown, I still half-expect to meet him in an oncoming vehicle with his ass hanging out the window while driving, or raising his crotch above the steering wheel and flashing me the old Degeneration X (from the World Wrasslin’ Federation) sign.

There was never a dull moment around my cuz. He was a fucking legend.

I hate that I can’t remember the last time I heard somebody mention his name. I know others like me think of and miss him daily, but hardly any of us talk about him anymore, and it hasn’t quite been two years since he left us.

The Wheel in the Sky Keeps On Turning

History books are constantly filled with stories, data, and heartbreak. All the things. It’s easy to get lost in the shuffle, hustle, and bustle. Unless we’re Albert Einstein or Walter Cronkite, the world quickly forgets about the majority of us.

Keep that in mind next time you want to start or do something that may be different or heaven forbid, weird. It doesn’t pay to worry about what people will think or say about you because a day will come when you and I are buried in the pages of history.

Live your life, not the life you think somebody else may want for you. Life’s too short to please everybody BUT yourself. Next time you’re afraid to hit publish because you made a joke about fondling yourself while having a cold shower, remember, you’ll die one day.

It’s the only sure bet that exists in this world.

Nobody will remember or give a shit in a few short years.

You do you.

Trust me. Nothing is more fucking rewarding.