I just wanted to share the moment when I knew I needed to write. I was always interested in writing and being a writer, but this was one of those defining moments:
"What do you do at work?" she asked me as we were waiting for our turn on the busy treadmill at the gym.
"I'm a writer," I replied before I had a chance to think of a flashier, brow raising response.
"What do you write?" the young health freak fired back quickly, as any quizzical dowdy aunt would do.
"Ummm, well, anything," I blurted, grabbing the gym towel hanging prettily from my shoulder. While my t-shirt quote was screaming aloud 'Since when was genius respectable?' It had a point here. .
"I write stuff like this, or anything that describes a product or service that a business wants to sell," I continued trying to remain cognizant of my audience's comprehension level of Advertising fluffery and consumer marketing.
"Oh. So you don't write books," she asked, eyes squinting, head slightly titled to the side from confusion."No, not yet," I mumbled, thankful that the noisy whirr of the treadmill cut the painstakingly innocent interrogation short.And that was the first time I remember uttering those words: I am a writer. Even today, as I pursue freelance projects, or do research for the next article, that title, that admission, stings my sensibilities like a strong winds forcing the rain to blow sideways, lashing across my cheeks. Maybe it's because I know that the questions won't stop there, or that I won't get the same familiar, approving nod that would accompany an answer like "primary school teacher" or "doctor" or "chef."Even if, like my advertising colleagues, a person recognizes writing as a profession, it's generally the romanticized version, where the writer spends days in exotic locations interviewing famous people for a widely-read general interest woman's magazine, or sitting on a beach at sunset crafting the great Indian novel that has the potential to put The New York Times' best-seller list to shame. I do neither. \nI have many of the habits of a successful writer. I read anything I can get my hands on, and seek out works that stretch my capacity as a lover of language. I question just about any idea of how things are "supposed" to be, and consider any subject or experience ripe for a story given ample background on the topic, along with the right perspective and spin
"Oh. So you don't write books," she asked, eyes squinting, head slightly titled to the side from confusion.
"No, not yet," I mumbled, thankful that the noisy whirr of the treadmill cut the painstakingly innocent interrogation short.
And that was the first time I remember uttering those words: I am a writer. Even today, as I pursue freelance projects, or do research for the next article, that title, that admission, stings my sensibilities like a strong winds forcing the rain to blow sideways, lashing across my cheeks. Maybe it's because I know that the questions won't stop there, or that I won't get the same familiar, approving nod that would accompany an answer like "primary school teacher" or "doctor" or "chef."
Even if, like my advertising colleagues, a person recognizes writing as a profession, it's generally the romanticized version, where the writer spends days in exotic locations interviewing famous people for a widely-read general interest woman's magazine, or sitting on a beach at sunset crafting the great Indian novel that has the potential to put The New York Times' best-seller list to shame. I do neither.
I have many of the habits of a successful writer. I read anything I can get my hands on, and seek out works that stretch my capacity as a lover of language. I question just about any idea of how things are "supposed" to be, and consider any subject or experience ripe for a story given ample background on the topic, along with the right perspective and spin.
But there's one little habit that has eluded me as a writer: I don't write. I don't write until I'm emotionally stirred that is, which, to a would-be professional, is even worse. And when I do manage to put the excuses aside and sit down with one of my exquisitely bound folios and take the top of one of those gel pens I so love to write with, my mind stalls. Then, it launches into an exhausting frenzy of unrelated, counterproductive ideas and things to do. It leaps from that essay to this poem.Who can write anything decent after such a mental marathon? I image my brain as an overexcited German Shepard chasing its tail, working tirelessly to capture something so close, but too far away to grasp. I enjoy writing and think I'm pretty good at it when I concentrate. But any natural talent I possess is only as good as my commitment will allow it to be.I think that's the biggest reason why I still feel uncomfortable calling myself a writer. Not because of what people think of me, or because I haven't cashed my first freelancer's check yet, but because I haven't mustered up the discipline to write no matter what. That's what matters most. That's what will help me hold my head up when I can't get others to understand and respect my craft and my way of living. I have to prove to myself that I can make myself write.This is the attraction to writing. This is its joy. This is its heartache.This, as much as anything, is why I write.
But there's one little habit that has eluded me as a writer: I don't write. I don't write until I'm emotionally stirred that is, which, to a would-be professional, is even worse. And when I do manage to put the excuses aside and sit down with one of my exquisitely bound folios and take the top of one of those gel pens I so love to write with, my mind stalls. Then, it launches into an exhausting frenzy of unrelated, counterproductive ideas and things to do. It leaps from that essay to this poem.
Who can write anything decent after such a mental marathon? I image my brain as an overexcited German Shepard chasing its tail, working tirelessly to capture something so close, but too far away to grasp. I enjoy writing and think I'm pretty good at it when I concentrate. But any natural talent I possess is only as good as my commitment will allow it to be.
I think that's the biggest reason why I still feel uncomfortable calling myself a writer. Not because of what people think of me, or because I haven't cashed my first freelancer's check yet, but because I haven't mustered up the discipline to write no matter what. That's what matters most. That's what will help me hold my head up when I can't get others to understand and respect my craft and my way of living. I have to prove to myself that I can make myself write.
This is the attraction to writing. This is its joy. This is its heartache.
This, as much as anything, is why I write.
