I Am a Writer

I am a writer.

I’m a writer because

I put words on paper.

I find joy in blank pages and the

Words that appear like magic

Just because I want them to.

I’m a writer because

the thoughts in my head find relief in running free

Across unlined fields of parchment or kraft

Or sometimes canvas.

I’m writer because I read.

I take comfort in words, letters, vowels and verbs

I swim in them and sometimes they

Swallow me whole.

I’m a writer because I do so.

I write whether it’s correct or incorrect

Or jumbled

Or even very good.

I write because it’s part of who I am.

It’s how I am and because I write

I’m learning to ignore the other voices that yell at me

And scream things like

STOP!!!

YOU SUCK!! YOU’RE TOO OLD!!

YOU HAVE NOTHING TO SAY!!

IT’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH!!!!

And just write anyway.

Because really, why wouldn’t I?

I am writer.

The It Factor

It seems that most of us go through life looking for the elusive ‘it’.  The thing that makes us who we are.  The thing that makes us tick.  We tell ourselves that if we can just find that one thing that sets us apart we'll find the missing connection.  We'll get our 'Aha!' moment, the lightbulb will go on and suddenly the world as we know it will make sense. I can't help wondering whether this is a giant recipe for disaster.  Can any of us live  up to the ideal self?  Is there such a thing or is finding yourself a karmic accident?  Are those who find it ready or just lucky? For me I always thought the answer was writing.  I have spent my life writing poetry and journaling and though I work at other things I have harbored the desire to write for a living painfully close to my heart so close that it has become harder and harder for me to act on it for fear of losing the elusive connection.  I don't get anything from writing monetarily.  I don't have a fan base, no followers on my blog or book deals.  I've thought about quitting a million times.  But I can't because worse than giving up writing would be giving up the dream of writing.   

I read once that the three ingredients to happiness were someone to love, something to do and something to look forward to.  It is because of the latter that I became a fan of the perpetual dream.  Having a dream that doesn’t come to fruition can be just as beneficial to our psyches as the one that does.  It keeps us looking forward.  We continue to be engaged and striving instead of jaded and complacent.  It reminds me of the movie “That Thing You Do” about the band who made it big only to come undone.  It was the dreaming not the reality that sustained them. 

 I look at my writing like this.  I am a writer because I write.  If there comes a day when I am published then I will be a published writer but I no longer want to place the value of my self worth as a writer on a single adjective.   The way I see it, it could be a “be careful what you wish for you just might get it” scenario.   Perhaps if I were to publish I would encounter a new set of problems, deadlines, criticisms, poor sales.   Who’s to say?  In the meantime I will continue to write as the need arises or the inspiration or even the desperation.  And I’ll keep dreaming, who knows, maybe one day I’ll even add that adjective. 

Chill Before Serving

Did you ever do that experiment in elementary school science where you created a tornado in a bottle?  It's basically akin to stirring up a batch of Kool-Aid but more scientific like.  My writing life is like this.  I start with an idea, which is basically like the water.  It's pure and clean and pretty much whole in my mind.  Then I add the flavoring, characters, locale, villains and give it a mighty stir.  At first everything is suspended, yet separate and crystallized.  Then as it gains momentum it begins to come together and starts to form a story.  But if I start to stir too fast a hole appears in the middle of my Kool-Aid and all the great ideas that were coming together are pushed to the side to make room for this giant nothing that threatens to take over.
I find myself writing faster trying to squeeze everything in the space that's left.  I jump around in my narrative. I'm unsure where things fit and the more I stir the greater the emptiness grows while everything I thought I had is frantically trying to become something else.   Even when I let go of the spoon the bright red concoction continues to turn.  I'm learning that the only way for it to become what I want it to is to let it.
As writers, we're hard on ourselves.  We feel bad when we have to start again or rip out pages.  But that's the beauty of it.  We can do what we want.  It's not a one off, we get to try again.
I'm there with a story I've been working on.  I'm a month in and I've been stirring too fast.  I'm at the point where I might just make a new batch, this time with sugar.  After all, Kool-Aid is a drink best served chilled.