Memories of Writing

I can’t say for sure I always new I wanted to be a writer but maybe on some level, I did want that. As far back as I can remember I wrote. When I was 5, maybe 6, I made childish, tiny little stories on post-it notes, stapled together to make tiny little books. The most vivid memory is from a time when I was at my great-grandparents mobile home. I loved those two and should probably write something about them sooner or later. But anyways, I wrote (and even illustrated them with the crude drawings of a child) even as far back as that. Back to what I might call happier times.

Not that times are unhappy right now, it’s just that I’m older.

The world seems to have lost some of its sparkle as I’ve aged. That’s probably just me rather than the time that’s passed, but the point remains the same. It’s something I’ve done even as far back as the happiest and most blissful of times. So I guess in some ways it was almost destined.

Meaning, just maybe, that it’s this or nothing. And that scares me a little. See I’m not a proper adult approach to life. I don’t take care of myself all that well, and I don’t a clear idea of where exactly I’m going, I avoid responsibilities whenever possible… and I’m typing this drunk in the knowledge that tomorrows work day doesn’t really have a set start time. In comparison to most of the world, I’m sure that’s a luxurious part of my life from just about any goddamn perspective.

I’m wandering again though, so let’s get back to it. Writing, whether I recognized it as a calling or not in the earliest years, was always a part of my life. It’s a nice thought, especially in the sense that so many successful writers, great ones even, have had a similar set of memories in that vein. But also frightening because there are so many hacks, so many there’s no hope of counting even a fraction of them, that have always wanted to be writers. And they were only ever hacks.

They couldn’t help but suck.

That fear is always present with me in everything I do. With writing, with school, hell, even with driving. I don’t have a license yet and a lot of people I look at with respect, successful and famous people, still don’t drive to this day. Marilyn Manson springs immediately to mind. But that comparison is dangerous because the parallel doesn’t truly mean anything, especially not by itself.

It’s just a little bit of bullshit to cling to, to comfort myself even when I know in the back of my mind that it doesn’t mean shit. And then there’s the fact that so many great men and women out there are always so uncertain of their greatness. So am I but that doesn’t make me one of them.

All I can say is, I guess I’m a writer.

Fated? I don’t know. Doesn’t hurt to dream. Faithful? To the craft, sometimes, to myself, always. To the notion that I’m destined for success? Fuck no. How can anybody get that idea in their head? How can they trust that? I wish I could and envy those that can, but I can’t.

Not yet anyways. But maybe it doesn’t matter.

In the end this life we live is fatal. We’ll see how well I played the game of life after I’ve died.

Haha, you know, if someone’s actually keeping score. Kind of doubt that too though.


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