For someone who longs to be writer as I do, I have one tragic flaw…I don’t write. It is ridiculous really. On every “about me” paper, personality test, random questionnaire-you name it- I have written the word “Writing” under the hobby section. Writing, Really? But isn’t a writer supposed to…you know, write? Yet somehow here I am, little miss writer, doing absolutely anything to avoid the task of writing actual words.
That being said, this semester I did decide to enroll myself in a creative writing workshop, and frankly, I’m terrified. It isn’t the writing itself exactly that I’m afraid of. In fact, when it comes down to it, I’m mostly just afraid of me. Every time I open the word document, pull out the pencil, or even think of a story lately I freeze. My mind exits story mode and instead remains suspended in a state of dread and self loathing. I begin to question everything: my story, my grammar, my so called “talent” for writing, and then, unable to handle it all I stop, I give up, and I move on. So this morning, as I propped open my laptop and began to type a few lines, I was rather astonished to discover that one, it’s really not so bad, and two, not only is it not so bad, but it is actually one of the most incredible experiences I’ve ever had. Writing. I am a writer. I can write. Anyone can write. It is okay that my words are not scholarly and professional, I am allowed to write mediocre stories. It is perfectly acceptable to write something that is flat out terrible…so long as I am writing.
So here you have it, most likely the most mediocre couple of paragraphs you have ever read, if you even bother to read them because, frankly, I probably wouldn’t. Little by little I will overcome my awful procrastination. My grammar will improve (trust me I realize how dreadful my punctuation is), and I will find more intelligent things to write about. I have this image in my head of my future self, sitting at her desk in her all white studio apartment, pouring out her soul into some great literary feat while devouring lukewarm coffee, being anything and everything I have dreamed about since, well for almost as long as I can remember. I have all of these dreams and goals locked away inside of me. To be a playwright, a screenwriter, novelist, journalist-anything, to make me feel accomplished. I am certain that I am not the only one who has felt as I do, nor will I be the last.
As for the point of this messy little essay, if that’s even what it should be called, I promise you there is one. For me personally, the purpose was to write something, anything at all. But for you? If you bothered to read any of it, let the point be a word of advise. What are you keeping yourself from? What are your dreams? Are you chasing after them wildly, or waiting under the covers for the rain to stop? Go after your dreams friends, and I don’t mean in a big way. Take baby steps. Write that paragraph, finish that painting, try out that recipe you’ve been saving. And always remember: it does not have to be grand, spectacular or groundbreaking…just let it be you, and leave it at that.