Dear Ian, Jason, Linda and Angel,
I know I’ve left you in some pretty precarious places and you’ve probably checked your watches about a hundred times by now waiting for me to help you continue. Don’t worry, I’ll be with you shortly as I’m think up new tortures and FML moments to subject you to in the morning. I assume you’ve bathed without me? I hope so. If not, I’ll be sure to get that in there the next time I’m with you, it’s been a few days and I’m sure it’s needed. Have you eaten? I know only one of you have that I can account take account of; I’ll try to remember to sneak in a few more meals. Only if it doesn’t detract from the pace of the story, if it does then you’ll just have to go hungry. Sorry.
I appreciate your patience with me as I continue to screw your lives beyond hope and have things happen to you that would not be socially acceptable and criminal on my plane of existence. But not to worry, you’re strong and you’ll kind of get though these things. Some of you anyways.
A few mornings ago, as I backed out of the driveway on my way to work, the sky was overcast, frost still on my windows, as I didn’t let the car warm up completely; I thought, there’s a blank page somewhere begging me to fill it with everything my mind oozes and anything I can scrape off the walls of my psyche. Before the front bumper of my car crossed the line into traffic, I paused there for a moment watching cars go by and thinking about what it meant to be a writer. Being a writer doesn’t always mean you will have legions of readers hanging on your every expressed word and getting paid handsomely to do so; would be nice. It means continuing to write when you don’t. I don’t have any published works, yet. I haven’t “completed” a project, yet.
What I do have is the audacity to keep sit at my computer and I pouring my thoughts out, letting them run freely when they do (awesomeness personified) or dribble out (Ugh) like they also do at some inopportune times. It means looking at the world around you and evaluating what you see and feel, being able to verbalize the existence that you perceived in a way that others will find thoughtful. It means looking at the world and feeling the air on your skin and knowing that twenty miles away the same air is touching a loved one and that you are connected and writing it down. It means taking in the words of the world, a stop sign, an antique shop post, an indie novel that a friend of a friend of a friends best friend wrote. It means reading a best seller and it means reading a flop all the way to the end and everything else you can get your hands on. It means no boundaries whether they be physical, imaginary or intellectual. (except plagiarism of course)
Feeling and giving in to that pull to create and tell stories or to report the world as you see it, that’s a writer.
All of this, mind you, is what I think a writer is and all that I want to have in me and be. The most wonderful part of what a writer is, is that if you share some of these traits you don’t say who isn’t a writer. No judgements, just writing.