Writing. Seems a such a funny word. Writer. Even funnier. Author. Well that's downright unthinkable most of the time. I support all writers. Those who truly are, or aspire to be. To write is a gift. Not everyone has it. Some try, and like to call themselves writers, but truly are not. To put pen to paper, and create something is truly a special kind of magic. And like all things special, not everyone can have it. That's a part of what makes it special.
For me, there could be some irony that I am the one saying this. Why? Because I'm a talker, not a writer. It's not because I choose to be. It's because if I do indeed have that special magic, I haven't learned to harness it. You see, when I sit down for my blog, I talk it out in my head as though I'm having a conversation. Sometimes that conversation is directed to someone in particular, other times I'm simply talking to myself, and yet other times I'm talking for the sake of talking. So when you read my blog, you're reading a small part of the tornado of ideas that are being thrown around in my mind.
If I applied myself a little bit, I could throw some ink across the page and it would be a short poem. But while I like some poetry, I'm not a poet. I grew up surrounded by books. In my life I've read thousands. I have ideas for stories. One is a vast universe that lives, evolves, and pulses. But I can't put it to paper. I want to. I'd love to. It's a universe I believe at least some others would like. So why can't I? As I said before, I lack the magic.
Up until I sit down to write, I have a plan. People to introduce. Places to describe. Events from great to tragic. However, once I sit down an illness sets in. Everything gets jumbled together. It's no longer coherent. What was up is now down. What was hot is now cold. What what quite and peaceful is loud and overwhelming. No matter what I do, it never comes back together until I stop and walk away. Then the haze lifts. I've tried writing small parts, cards, memos, horrid pictures that don't remotely look as they should. When I was younger it wasn't as hard. I could wave my hand at the last minute, and the rabbit would just appear. Now that I want the rabbit to appear, it appears to have disappeared.
I have not lost hope. I chalk it up as just not being the right time. The time might come an hour from now, a day, a decade, a lifetime. It may not come at all. It could be a universe that only I am to be privy to. But for now I'll wait. I'll wait, and I'll talk, I'll joke, I'll sing, and I'll sleep on it. And one day, one day I'll not only find the magic, but the ability to use it. Until then, I'll talk and share the other things in my head. I'll be a writer, that's not a writer. Life is funny that way. Wouldn't you agree?
