I
have always taken it for granted that I am a writer, perhaps committing to this
avocation years before I truly understood what it really means to be one. Even now, I’m not sure I fully
understand. But more than ever, I know
I’m this. A writer.
I’m a
writer whether I get paid or not. It
matters not I’m a writer even if few read my work. I wrote it.
It’s good. I’m a writer.
Others say they are writers. But are we really the same?
Others say they are writers. But are we really the same?
I’m
a writer, because I compose words to say what I feel, think, and did.
I’m
a writer, so I can craft worlds, ideas or moments that never existed, can’t
exist or need to live somewhere.
I’m
a writer because I find the art of writing therapeutic.
I’m a
writer so I can gain control of a world that can be confusing, harsh, and
unfair.
I’m
a writer because it’s what I like, what I know, what I do, and who I am.
I
wrote extra credit reports all through elementary school, and then junior high
school. At the high school I attended
you could get entire course credit just by independently researching something
and writing a paper on it. When I was 10,
I posted my first journal entry, one that would be composed on and off for more
than three decades. I wrote for school
newspapers, and started several newsletters – one when I was a teenager and
another while in college. For a living,
I write press kits and pitch letters – probably over 10,000 pages worth.
This
blog, as of now, approaching eight years and 3,200 or so posts, must equal at
least 1.6 million words (based on 500 words, on avg., per post). That’s a lot of words. Oh, and I wrote a 400-page book about homeowner and condo associations. Don’t ask. Then there are dozens of
letters-to-the-editor, published in papers of all sizes and shapes, including
the Washington Post, New York Daily News,
New York Post, Newsday, etc.
It’s
hard to be a writer who makes good money.
So few do. It’s hard to be a
writer that can make a lasting impression on the masses. So few do.
It’s hard to create, get published, promote yourself, and then go back to repeat the experience, again and again.
But all writers share one thing in common, and it’s a powerful
trait. They each feel something, and
feel it’s important to share, and choose to use the medium of books to impact
the lives of others.
Or
maybe writers are just shadowy figures who live on the sidelines, writing about
things from a safe distance rather than get their hands dirty and live life
fully - with risk, loss, and fear enmeshed with rewards, wins, and happiness. Are writers more comfortable recording events
– observing or imagining them -- more so than taking a first-person approach to
the world?
I
would argue that authors are some of the bravest people I know. They examine, explore, and analyze the world and
themselves, from the inside out. They
put life under a microscope and judge themselves the harshest. They have to see the world both as it is (at
times deadly, sickly, ugly, hateful) and how it could be (at times joyful, beautiful,
funny, kind), and how the world may change, for better or worse.
Writers are deep thinkers and emotional scalers. They mirror life and they also construct things that no one else sees. Writers simultaneously live many lives and contemplate many possibilities. The writer cries for all and champions the very best of humanity, but he’s not a god or saint or a healer – he or she can be haunted by pasts, addictions, fears, needs, and a million and one shortcomings.
The writer is a mere mortal, both leader and follower, manipulator and innocent victim, sane and unhinged, good and bad. The writer wants to figure out life, like he or she goes about solving some type of puzzle, but the answer key is missing. Just as we think we’re closer to the truth of everything we see that we have not fully accounted for all scenarios, and thus, we’re back to square one.
We punch at the world with wisdom, conviction, and intellectual phrasings but we are outgunned by some type of mathematical formula that refuses to be discovered by us.
Writers are deep thinkers and emotional scalers. They mirror life and they also construct things that no one else sees. Writers simultaneously live many lives and contemplate many possibilities. The writer cries for all and champions the very best of humanity, but he’s not a god or saint or a healer – he or she can be haunted by pasts, addictions, fears, needs, and a million and one shortcomings.
The writer is a mere mortal, both leader and follower, manipulator and innocent victim, sane and unhinged, good and bad. The writer wants to figure out life, like he or she goes about solving some type of puzzle, but the answer key is missing. Just as we think we’re closer to the truth of everything we see that we have not fully accounted for all scenarios, and thus, we’re back to square one.
We punch at the world with wisdom, conviction, and intellectual phrasings but we are outgunned by some type of mathematical formula that refuses to be discovered by us.
So
writers are left with returning to write about what they feel strongest about,
where their passions and heart take them.
We keep stating our versions of the truth, but we know that deep down
the formulas are off.
It’s
similar to medicine and how it’s practiced.
Doctors know they don’t know everything and that no bit of advice or
treatment will prevent all disease nor treat it. They know people can live longer than they do
now, if only they could get people to be more responsible about what they eat,
drink, smoke, and exercise. But even
with all that mapped out, no modern-day humans exceed 120 years of life. Doctors and scientists want to break through
and find, if not the eternity gene, a way to live many more decades or
centuries.
They
chase a ghost, just as writers do, and just as everyone chases perfection. Teachers want students to learn more. Firemen want to save everyone. Lawyers want to win every case. We all strive for the elusive. What wdo e do if we got there?
I
write to see what will come out of the pen, not always aware in my head of what
I want to say. It just flows. I love when it rains words, of all sizes and
meanings. I look forward to writing
tomorrow, for there will always be something unsaid, unsolved, and unlived that
needs a home.
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