I’m a writer. Not a bestselling, charts-topping one, not yet. But there are things I have seen, emotions that rage through me, there are questions with no answers that don’t let me sleep; they scuttle around like headless Medusas until they find a place of their own on a blank page. Those wicked things do not even ask for their answers to be known. I’ve been wise, I’ve been immature; I’ve let go of things that mattered most to me and pushed myself against the wall in the name of standing up.
I have lost more than I thought I would, I haven’t had a place to hide. I face myself each day and sometimes, I see a new stranger. And in time, you read my work and you wonder what could’ve possibly inspired me. I’m a writer: I crystallize shards of my own experience and melt them all together in one big china pot… sure, the names are different and sometimes they have better cell phones and have no flatulence issues.
My written word derives itself from my life, from all that I have been, from what I continue to see and comprehend.
Every other dolt’s a writer?
You skim through those paragraphs, flitting from word to full stop, wondering WHY anyone would write poems that rhyme and stories that don’t. Juvenile plots, random spell errors, that predictable course of acceptance and irony… you don’t get it, do you?
You stroke your ego and think that maybe… you’re better. Or wonder what creativity has come down to for people. You can quote all the fancy authors and thinkers you find on Google, there’s none that could explain this nosedive in common creative sense.
You’re really that simple, aren’t you?
The next time you read a work of fiction, remind yourself that somewhere, one scene or maybe a chapter or a book is a secret marriage of someone’s truth with another world in another ‘verse. A story, howsoever stunted, is an individual attempt to set free what was set in motion, to release the design. A verse, howsoever far-fetched, is a testimonial to the patterns that choose us, and the one ones we choose to keep.
Not everyone you meet or will read about will be half as adept with words as you. But I’m a writer, and keep this in mind, may your own conceit not trump you.
Not bestselling. Not yet.