The word randomly popped into my head one day as I was taking a bath after work.
Yes, I was taking a bath.
Because I’m geriatric as hell…
My Bumble profile basically just says: “I’m 26 going on 88. Looking for someone to give me sponge baths.”
Any way, there I was, exfoliating my skin with a triple grain lavender-infused soap, when this word decided to appear into my decent-sized vocabulary.
As a writer, you have about a 98.2% failure rate when it comes to good ideas. I’ve woken up from a dream and been like, “Holy shit, that would’ve been an awesome movie.”
I’ll start writing and then go back and reread and be like, “Whoa. I absolutely cannot write a movie about an eagle that adopts three orphan children and develops a romantic relationship with one of them.”
Let’s just say fiction isn’t my strong suit. I’m too dramatic and the whole thing is way too farfetched. All of my fiction is like Lifetime movies on crack.
I write best when I write about myself and not incestuous eagle relationships.
If you’ve never written about yourself before, it’s scary. You’re putting yourself out there for everyone else’s disposal.
Recently, my friend who lives in Japan called me and inquired about the black eye story that I wrote about.
I casually asked her how she found out, in which I was not delighted to hear, “Well, my mom read your blog and told me about it.”
CoOL! My intended audience was not my childhood best friend’s mom. She didn’t need to know that I was LiVinG dA VidA LoCa in southern California.
Nevertheless, I think a good writer doesn’t have secrets. Even if we do, they’ll come out after we die when someone writes a biography on us. Not that I ever think I’ll get to that level, but one can only hope.
What I’m trying to say though is that good writers are relatable. We put ourselves out there so that we can make others feel a little less stupid about their own selves. Because at the end of the day, we’re all the same.
Well, except for like the small amount of the population who has #serialkillerproblems. I can’t really relate to someone who dissects their pet cat, but I feel for you?
Writing about me and all the funny shit, well now looking back, funny shit, that I’ve been through, I realize that its not so bad and it makes people laugh.
When I thought of “FICKLE.,” it seemed perfectly fitting. Life is fickle. We as humans are fickle.
I know I’m certainly one fickle fuck.
Most people my age are. Although fickle has a negative connotation to it, when used in the correct context, it simply means, “changing frequently, especially in one’s loyalties, interests, and affections.”
K. If you can’t relate to this as someone going through your 20s, then you were probably homeschooled or something.
Within the span of a year, I’ve went through a tremendous amount of interests, loyalties, and just overall life events. I basically moved from my own personal hell (Nashville) to a place where it’s always sunny, never rains, and women have lips the size of Jupiter.
I’m talking about SoCal, baby!
Oh and we’ve got cougars. Lots of cougars. If you haven’t seen a 55-year-old woman make out with an 18-year-old senior in high school, I promise you will in Orange County.
Going back to me and staying away from MILFs, it’s been one fickle year when I think about everything, but it’s something that I want to share.
Random anecdotal story-time:
The other night, I was at this bar minding my own business until all of the sudden, a kind-of-in-a-weird-way, attractive dude got incredibly close to my face.
On a good note, he was sweet and not that hard to talk to.
On a bad note, I could literally taste his salvia splashing into my nostrils as he spoke to me.
Needless to say, I was a tiny bit uncomfortable.
I suffered through the painful conversation, since my friend needed a solid wingwoman. She looked like she was having a good time chatting with his companion, so I decided to tough it out and subject myself to the human carwash that was happening.
He described to me that he was a filmmaker, while getting four inches away from my face. I turned my head towards a window and asked him what his movie was about. I honestly can’t relay to you the plot, because I wasn’t listening.
I was too busy replaying that episode of the Magic School Bus where Ms. Frizzle and the gang take a field trip through the human body. I thought about the school bus on one of his spit particles that was continuously landing on my face.
The microscopic bus would land close to my mouth, travel inside, and swim through my red blood cells.
Yeah, that episode.
I swear this thought was the only thing that was keeping my sanity together in the moment, but looking back on what I just said: Nope.
I had totally lost it.
Regardless of my face screaming that I wanted out of this situation ASAP, he asked me what I did for a living.
“I write about teeth and pretend to be a 74-year-old man. Sounds fun, huh?”
Always up for a bit of roleplaying.
I told him that I also write comedy and that I wanted to write a book.
“What about?” he sighed into my eyelash follicles.
“It’s about me,” I said as rotated my head like an owl away from his sauna-hot breath.
“Oh no! You can’t write about yourself. You have to separate the two. Especially during pitches,” he inched closer to my ear hole.
God help me.
“Well, it’s still something I’m venturing into, but I feel like I’m pretty much your average 26-year-old fuck up. I think people who are single and venturing towards their 30s can relate to me. So, yeah. I’m going to write about me,” I replied.
As his cornea gently grazed my cheek, I seriously considered slithering out of the building like a demon leaving a possessed person’s body.
I then gave my friend the, “I actually can’t do this anymore. Enjoy your free drinks!” look.
His advice wasn’t good. How could I separate myself from my writing? It doesn’t work that way.
It’s not like I consider myself a misunderstood artist by any means. I’m not like walking around with a sign on my back saying, “Art is pain and pain is art and I write things that are meaningful and deep.”
That’s not the case. I’m not Frida Kahlo or anything.
I’m Hannah L. Miller, who writes about failed relationships, bad dates, boob massages in Bali, and all the other awkward experiences that I’ve had.
Artist? No. Comedian? Maybe on a good day.
But you can’t wipe yourself clean of who you are when you’re writing. It took me a long time to develop my own writing style and I’m still working on it every day. I went from being an academic writer who used words like, “hegemony,” “intersectionality,” and “juxtaposition,” but now I’m all like, “shit,” “fuckboy,” and “bae.”
“Get you a girl who can do both.” – Rae Sremmurd.
For me, writing about myself is both the easiest and most challenging thing that I can do. I don’t want to stop doing it and I’m really excited to write a book about my last year.
It’s an interesting story that took me all across the US. It’s a story about finding out who you are in the midst of a whole hell of a lot of confusion. It’s about things not working out your way. Last, but not least, it’s about an immense amount of failure met with an even greater amount of success.
My last year has been heart-breaking, but it’s also been redeeming in so many ways. I’m excited to share it with everyone.
Even my best friend’s mom. Sorry Amanda, this might disappoint you.
And remember, we’re all a little bit fickle. That’s what makes us fun.
I never wanted to be a Disney princess any way. The villains are the ones with the best stories.