since the last time i uploaded something on here, i have not reconciled even a little bit with my hesitance of calling myself a writer. it's gotten worse, in fact, and i think i need to make peace with the fact that perhaps, i really am not a good writer at all.
it's something that pokes at the soft parts of my heart quite a bit when i really think about it; my ability to tell a story has been my favorite part about myself ever since i was old enough to know what counted as a story. a three second baby babble that gave my mom the full contours of the depth of my hunger, a scribbled toddler rant in red crayon across the wall narrating anger, anger, anger, a 200 page journal cover to cover detailing my last relationship. a beginning, a middle, an end. it is so simple but it's the hardest thing to do well, especially when your discernment overshadows your talent by leaps and miles.
but i have always been able to tell a story. it's about stepping out of yourself for a little bit, it's about knowing the words to describe what you're seeing. two steps that become nearly infinite when your discernment overshadows your talent by leaps and miles.
i have been wondering lately if i've even ever liked writing at all, but of course i did. how could i not? it's what got me the prizes. it's what got me the graduation speeches. it's what got me the accolades. but i'm wondering if there was any self-satisfaction in the mix as well now. but how could there not be? i wrote stories for myself for as long as i can remember. but funnily enough, i conversely cannot remember the last time i wrote a proper story. i cannot remember the last time i have been able to step out of myself and be brave enough to write down what i'm seeing. the idea that writing is never that serious keeps coming to me unbidden, because i truly do not know what could be more serious than writing.
i respect a good writer. i also hate them. it's one of those ugly, pulsing emotions you don't talk about unless you're writing a particularly vulnerable self-help book about recognizing envy. but writing is also about cutting those ugly, pulsing emotions open and spreading them out on paper. it is unfortunately, just that serious. but i constantly wonder what they have that i don't- what makes them a good writer and me, a mediocre one, if a writer at all? i almost feel as if i cannot write well until i figure out how to answer that question. but i don't find it in the feedback for my college papers. and i don't find it in comments under anonymous writing. and i don't find it in vonnegut's shapes of stories. i don't find it in my cup of coffee or the innards of my gas oven. the solution most obviously is to just write anyway. you don't need to be good at something to do it. but here's the kicker- i only want to be good. i just so badly want to be good that i do not do anything if i am not good at it. and i happen to not be good at a lot of things.
i think i'm on a carousel slipping in an out of the fifth stage of the hero's journey: abyss. loss and gain and loss and gain and loss and gain. and it has become such an inane mundanity now that it seems as if there's nothing i have to say that is worth saying, not when it won't be good enough to push me through to the sixth stage. when do i become too old to not have thrown my towel in already?
