As the person who snapped this picture back in, I dunno, probably ’86 or early ’87 (maaaaaybe as early as ’85), “So serious?”
Even back then, at the tender age of 15-17-ish, I guess I was serious AF when I was writing. Everything in that little book I was holding was me pouring myself into my writing. I took myself very fucking serious as a writer back then. I didn’t have illusions that I was ever going to make it anywhere with my writing (and the rejections letters I used to post on my apartment doors later on helped remind me that getting famous from my writing was a pipe dream at best). But I was, and largely still am, a serious writer.
I’m not sure what the hell I mean by that, honestly.
I guess I always try to be 100% into my writing when I’m doing it. I never expect it to go well, and I don’t slash my wrists when it doesn’t (I’d not have any wrists left, were that the case), but I am the act of writing when I am writing. I’ll admit that I am quick to move on. But each piece, while written is deadly serious. I’ve always been that way.
Which is why I probably rarely look very happy in pictures people take. I’m often toying around with an idea with writing and I forget to smile nicely for people. Not that my smile will win any beauty contests… And when I say “often”, I mean almost 90% of my waking moments.
It’s probably a mental health problem, but I redirect you to an earlier post that explains that I spent too many years drinking, then antidepressant-ing, and other mood altering things where I couldn’t think very well about writing and it’s like my brain is trying to make up for the lost time.
An even more serious picture, sent by the same HS friend:
She probably interrupted my writing to snap the picture. Really.
What the fuck, Kate? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of writing. Jeeze.
Yeah, that’s probably the exchange that took place. I can hear it in my head as I write it.