LeyRae posted this in the Writers Group today.
Some of us sleep with notebooks by our bedside, and have waken at 3 am to write down another lyric, another scene, another idea. Some of us would gladly trade sleep for another chapter done. Some of us have been so inspired while simply sitting on a toilet seat that we had to write on a sliver of tissue and unabashedly ask the person in the next stall for a pen once ours ran out. Some of us have read an entire novel before the weekend was through, anticipating the turn of the page, yet dreading the ache that comes from another story ended, only to fall asleep in the afterglow that causes us to dream and beckons us to write better and deeper than our most honored author. Some of us have adopted "the road to success is paved with failure," as our mantra, always writing, and rewriting, and rewriting some more, constantly reminding ourselves that Dr. Suess was repeatedly rejected, until the determination to capture our elusive goal has evolved from a simple matter of tenacity, to a profound and powerful religion. Writing is our life, and to stop would be our death.
What is a writer anyway? I suppose the definition is entirely subjective. To me, "writer" is not a self granted title, nor is it bestowed upon you by the recognition of another. Even the quality of the work itself does not merit "writership". For me, it is the overwhelming feeling, the desire, the craving, the need to write. It's the love of creation, the respect for the story, the desire to communicate, and reach into a psyche, a soul, even if only yours. For me, that is the essence, the core, the meaning that defines a writer.
I stared, slack-jawed and humbled at the screen before attempting a response. But, here are my words, none the less. I don't ask necessarily that you read them - only that you don't pretend to have done so if you haven't.
Stacks of notebooks bear the scars of my daily battles with the skin film of half-formed lexicon that barricades my innermost self. Failed attempts fill pages yet everything i strive to explain or qualify or justify manifests as only the obsession, the complusion that i have to write. My words are cryptic and confusing, naming everything except for why. Clocks and calendars have become secondary and unimportant. The screen and the page are the only thing that matter as I untangle the labyrinth of metaphor and prose that haunt my mind. The things I want to write, the love and beauty and hate and horror that form the constant streaming narrative that haunt me, linger phantasmic, taunting me with knowing that I could never spell them out in ink.
But, when I write the words that no one will ever read - the ones that I sequester in embarrassed journals, I am alive in a way that makes everything else die away. I write like I breathe, I couldn't stop if I tried. Everytime I read the poetry or the narrative that quickened my heart with excitement to write, I find myself only disappointed, knowing there was a better way, a better word, a better author, that could have expressed what I have sought to convey. Yet, I couldn't change what I write, even if I tried. This passion is the heart that beats in my chest, these lines are mine as much as my gallbladder is - and I am able to change them as easily as I could change the color of my gallbladder. I slice veins and my lifeblood flows onto the page.
Everyday I am reminded why I strive to do this, why I write, why I create worlds and stories inside my head. Today, this post of yours reminded me. Reminded me that there are girls in Arizona who pen the words I meant to say but couldn't quite get out right. It reminded me that I am foolish to feel deserving of the title of 'writer". In the pontificating manner of clumsy wordsmiths, what I mean to say is - you have a way with words that makes me want to both put down my pen in humility and pick it up with inspiration.
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CLIFFS NOTES: Julie is way impressed with a writer on the site. Like totally wow, fuck, this girl is good. This delusional bitch wishes she could remember what it felt like to write something she was proud of.
