My name is Marcos. I’m twenty-one years old. I like to call myself a writer, and in frequent, pathetic attempts to make myself appear as a much more fully-formed person than I am, claim writing as my primary hobby. I’ve gotten used to telling every drunk and disinterested stranger I meet at a party that it’s my “most sacred creative outlet.” The sad truth is… I rarely ever do it. When I try to, I struggle to organize my thoughts for thirty minutes before getting distracted, losing myself in the sweet, mind-numbing ritual of scrolling my Twitter timeline. That, or a really good song emerges from the fog in my brain and there’s nothing I can do but search it on Spotify and press play. I have a lot of trouble with commitment when it comes to my creative work; the fact this introductory post has taken me two months to finalize speaks to that.
Let it be known now that I’m not the best with words. I’m the polar opposite of an articulate speaker, and a much less articulate writer. There will be errors, and run-on sentences, and things I say that might not make complete sense. This inadequacy at wielding my power over the written word has become one of my biggest insecurities where it was once the only thing about myself I was confident in. As I was on my way out of the door on the last day of tenth grade English class, my teacher who fervently believed in my abilities pulled me aside and whispered to me: “You’re a writer. Keep writing.” It’s hard to communicate through pixels forming letters forming poorly strung-together words on a screen just how much that memory has helped me wade through life’s unforgiving and ever-changing tides. As I reckon with my low self-esteem and the end of adolescence in preparation to become a Real Adult, I figure now is a better time I follow Mr. Dillon’s advice than ever. How else can I improve my writing other than to keep doing it?
Onto other things you should know about me: I’m too gay to function. I’m the American son of immigrants. I study filmmaking at a reputable school, but the demons of aimlessness and imposter syndrome have caught up with me, leading to what I hate to call a quarter-life crisis. I question everything I think, say, and do. Some of my friends consider me a connoisseur, but I’m really nothing more than a meager dilettante. I’m prone to feeling lonely despite the abundance of love I get from the people around me. And to top it all off, I’ve never seen a therapist! You’re going to get my totally unfiltered and unmedicated thoughts. So, I will stay true to the title of my website and bare it all; moments in time where my heart is filled to the brim, and others where it feels as if a blade has been jammed and twisted around inside of it, and all I can do is fall to the ground in pain and let my wound bleed out and seep into the Earth beneath me.
For me, What my mother doesn’t know will waver between being a blog where I write about the things I love—mostly movies, sometimes music, always stuff that I can’t contain my appreciation for—and a sort of diary, almost like chapters of a memoir. Through writing, I want to navigate the uncertain and utterly terrifying vast abyss that is existing as myself. I want to understand why I am the way I am, why I love what I love, and why the things that happen to me happen, and to me. You will meet some of my favorite people, read about my favorite things, and hopefully after some time together, become my friend. Also, I promise I won’t always be as self-deprecating as I am here!
This is already egregiously long for what it is, so I’m going to stop slamming my fingers down on these keys now. If you’re interested in taking a peek into my mind, feel free to subscribe. If not, I hope to see you soon somewhere in the world; it’s a small one.
