You ever sit back, stare out a window, and think, “Damn. Maybe I was just born in the wrong era”? I do. Frequently. Especially when I’m writing—something I love, something that used to mean something, back when people consumed the written word instead of TikTok montages of people lip-syncing relationship drama that never happened.
I mean, I like to write about the news. I consider myself witty. Funny, even. If this were 1975, I’d have a syndicated column by now and a bourbon problem that nobody questioned. If this were 1942, I’d be hunched over a typewriter in a smoky newsroom, screaming at someone named Marge to get me the scoop before deadline. If this were 1823, I’d be penning scathing essays in a candlelit cabin and dying of gout.
But instead, I live in the era of “scroll, scroll, rage-share, forget.” Nobody reads. Nobody wants to read. If it doesn’t fit in a tweet, come with closed captions, or involve a 15-second storytime where someone says “so boom,” it’s getting skipped. Do you know what I get told when I say I’m writing a book? “That’s cute.” Or worse, “No one reads anymore.”
Exactly. That’s why I’m writing a book.
Because I’m stupid.
I’m writing a 400-page heartfelt exploration of trauma, identity, and queer resilience in the age of doomscrolling and Amazon wishlists. I’m crafting sentences like Michelangelo painted ceilings, while everyone else is asking ChatGPT to write them wedding vows that rhyme.
And you know what? I’ve never had a problem writing. Not once. Words flow from my brain through my fingers—pen or keyboard—the way shitty opinions flow from the mouths of people who start sentences with, “I’m not racist, but…”
I believe in monogamy. I believe in love. I believe in slow dancing in kitchens and sending postcards just because. I believe in making someone laugh so hard they snort and then fall in love with you because of it.
Which, let’s be real, makes me a dinosaur in an era that treats connection like a subscription you can cancel during the free trial.
I was born in the wrong era. But not the wrong wrong era.
Let’s not get carried away.
Because while I may love long-form writing, commitment, and making eye contact that says “I see your soul,” I’m not about to romanticize the 1950s.
Let’s not forget the fine print in the time travel brochure:
Gender roles? Check.
Jingoism? Double check.
McCarthyism? Drag queen story hours would’ve gotten you blacklisted and beaten.
Racism, homophobia, xenophobia? Required reading.
Marital rape? Not a crime yet.
Mental illness? Sent to a sanitarium.
Pregnant teen? Sent to a “home.”
Domestic abuse? “What did she do?”
Corporal punishment? Called “good parenting.”
War? Glorified.
Trauma? Ignored.
Men had emotions? Not publicly. Women had rights? Debatable.
So yeah. Maybe I was born in the wrong era, but not that wrong.
I don’t want to go back to a time when everything looked better on a postcard but came with institutional oppression, chain-smoking doctors, and dinner being whatever your wife cooked in silence. I just want to go back to when people read words and felt them.
I want to live in a time where writing mattered. Where being funny meant something other than being a background player in a viral video. Where someone would hear a clever turn of phrase and think, “Damn, I want to hear more from that guy,” instead of “Ugh, can you summarize?”
But I live now. And in this era, writing a book feels like building a lighthouse in the middle of a landlocked suburb and hoping someone drives by at night and goes, “Hey, that’s helpful.”
So here I am. A hopeless monogamist with a keyboard, a sense of humor sharper than a TikTok commenter with nothing to lose, and the unshakable belief that words still matter—even if I have to shout them into the void while everyone else is watching someone cut soap for serotonin.
I coulda been somebody.
I coulda been a star.
But instead, I’m a relic with Wi-Fi, trying to outwrite extinction.
And you know what? I think I’m okay with that.