Start by forgetting about writing a story. If you think you’re going to write a story, you’ll just end up disappointed. Don’t imagine characters as you spoon your Muesli in the morning. Don’t draw up a setting while sitting in the back of ECON 232, and especially don’t try to come up with a plot as you walk home alone, intoxicated on you don’t know quite what, at three in the morning. You’re not going to write a story.

You are not a writer. Writers write every day. Writers work at writing. Writers think about writing. What are you thinking about? Your girlfriend broke up with you last month; you spent far too much money this weekend; the French chick in the next row is pretty cute; your stomach is telling you it’s lunchtime. You’re not a writer. You’re a student, living on your parents’ dime, with nice-sounding hopes and dreams.

You must think you are special, that you have something blindingly true to share with the world, that you can reveal the beauty under the surface of everyday life, that you can transform and heal people. You are self-important. Nobody else was going to tell you. Give up your delusions of grandeur, even if you can’t admit you have them—because you do.

You have so many more important things to do besides writing a story. Everything in your life is more important. It’s more important that you do your laundry, that you wish your mother a happy birthday, that you apologize to the friend you’ve been avoiding since you got a little too drunk and spilled red wine on her expensive blouse. You need to get over your ex-girlfriend and stop masturbating to the pictures of her that are still saved on your laptop. It makes you feel dirty anyways. Writing stories will solve none of these problems. Writing stories will get you nowhere in life.

You wish you were a fully-functioning human being—able to form healthy relationships, to hold a job, to be someone who doesn’t turn violent or depressed at every obstacle he encounters. These are things that take a long time, and a lot of effort; you might as well get started now. You need to go to therapy—despite your claims of an ideal childhood, you’re actually pretty messed up. Any self-help book will tell you, the first step to change is overcoming denial.

Remember the day your dog died? Your mom came to wake you up at six in the morning to tell you that she had found Zilla curled up among the hydrangeas. You hadn’t even rubbed the sleep from your eyes before you realized you had lost your best friend. Your mom just sat on the edge of your bed, in her gray sweatsuit, sobbing. You didn’t want to go to school that day, but you did anyways. You held in your tears in front of your friends, and when you came home your father asked, “How was your day?” like it was any other.

Your feelings get stuck somewhere between your chest and your throat. You need to figure out what is going on inside you. Weird is not an emotion. You don’t feel weird. Use your words. Describe how the emotion feels. Where do you feel it? What images do you associate with it? How intense is it? You will need a lot of practice. Emotions are hard to pin down, and let’s be honest, your communication skills are lacking.

Yelling is not an effective form of communication. Yelling is not relationship building. Neither is being completely silent. You need to fall somewhere in between the two. Try speaking softly; it may help to bring out your vulnerability. You need to learn to be vulnerable. Your anger is just covering up your pain, and if you don’t address it, you’re only hurting yourself, and alienating those around you.

You’re not much fun to be around, except when you’re drunk. You’re a likeable drunk. I suppose you take after your father in a way. You always preferred him after he’d had a few. Sure, he may have smacked you a couple times, but he was generally more charming, more down-to-earth, and funnier too! You knew if he was slurring his words, that it was safe to crack a few jokes at his expense. He would take it lightly. And if ever he didn’t, you knew you could get away from him. He wasn’t very quick when he was drunk.

You were a sprightly kid, full of energy. You’ve lost a bit of that now, maybe it’s the pot, but maybe it’s something else. You would never call it depression, but the symptoms are there. You’re not going to think about it unless you’re forced to. That’s not the healthy thing to do. Distracting yourself doesn’t solve your problems. Come to terms with being alone in the world; things get easier afterwards.

You don’t have real friends. You call them your friends, but you don’t really know them, and they don’t know you. It’s a friendship of convenience, because you can’t party alone. Try to have a serious conversation. Try asking them about their lives. What are your passions? What are your dreams? What does love mean to you? It scares you to even think about asking these questions. You don’t want to deal with actually getting to know someone.

You care too much about what other people think. You worry about others’ judgments. Maybe it’s because you’re so judgmental yourself. You’re constantly putting others down. Maybe it’s because you don’t like yourself. Cultivate compassion. Accept others’ faults, and maybe you’ll be able to deal with your own. Look for the source of your dissatisfaction. What do you want out of life? This is a good question to consider.

Try meeting someone new, like that French girl from your class. You should ask her on a date. It doesn’t matter that nobody goes on dates anymore—ask her anyway. Take her to a museum, or propose a walk by the river; don’t take her to dinner. It doesn’t matter how the date goes. Be present. Listen to her, even if she talks endlessly about how she hates Americans. Pretend you’re Canadian, and sympathize. Don’t try and kiss her yet, even though you want to. Tell her you don’t want to go home. Walk with her towards her house, but don’t push the matter. When she tells you that her roommates are gone, don’t say anything; keep walking.

Kiss her when she sits next to you on the living room couch. Put your hand on her neck—she’ll like that. Let her take off your shirt. You weren’t expecting this, but go with it anyways. You want each other. Your mind is racing, everything is moving so fast. You’re not sure if you’re ready for this. Your ex keeps haunting your thoughts; you can’t concentrate; you can’t get an erection. Why is this happening? Just breathe.

Don’t accept the offer to spend the night. Revel in your post-coital glow. You may not feel this good for another year. Don’t worry about how you performed, or if she had an orgasm. These things are not important. Buy yourself a sandwich and take it home with you. Eat it slowly; savour it. This is the best sandwich you have ever tasted.

Call your father for the first time in two years. You still know his cell phone number by heart. Pretend it’s just a casual conversation. Talk about politics. Talk about the weather. Let him ask you the difficult questions: “What was it like growing up with me?” Answer honestly, even though you want to lie. Tell him he how he hurt you. Don’t try and fill up the silence, just listen to his breathing.

Look through the journal you kept as a teenager. Make the effort to read every word, even though the handwriting is messy. Cry over your high-school girlfriend. It’s okay, nobody will ever know. Remark how good it feels to have let it out. Decide that you will keep a journal from now on. You won’t write in it every day, or even every week, but every so often you’ll scribble something worth remembering in those yellow pages.

Call the girl from your class. You’ve been thinking about her non-stop. You know you’ll fall for her, but you can’t admit it to yourself just yet. Just call her and ask her what she’s doing that night. She’ll say she’s busy. That’s okay. You weren’t expecting her to be free anyways. Try to remember what she smelled like—sunscreen and honeysuckle.

Realize how full your life is.
Realize how full it has always been, but that the difference is your attitude. Notice small things throughout the day—your reflection on a sheet of ice, or the way the couple in front of you is holding hands—feel the urge to write them down. Begin to carry a notebook with you, but forget to write in it. Smoke a joint and have a revelation; come up with the answer to life. Figure everything out, and forget about it all by morning.

Note that you’ve stopped caring altogether about your grades. Remark how much more enjoyable school has been, and that you’re still doing just fine. Realize that you actually like learning, it’s just the external control and pressure that you hate. Skip class because it’s a beautiful day. Walk somewhere you’ve never been before, and watch people as they go about their lives. Pick out someone you find particularly repulsive. Acknowledge that he’s just as fragile as you. Feel the tension release from your body. Smile at him as you walk by.

Stop for a minute on your way home. It doesn’t matter where, just stop and stand still. It makes you anxious because you have so much to get done: finals aren’t far away, you promised your friend you’d go to his show, there’s that writing assignment you’ve been putting off, and you still have to eat. You don’t want to do any of that. You want to share the beauty you see in overweight men; you want to inspire people to confront their fears; you want to be somebody’s saviour. Forget about what you have to do. You are writing a story.