|“You don’t write because you want to say something, you write because you have something to say.”
~F. Scott Fitzgerald
I’m a writer.
I’m a Writer.
I said it, ok?
I don’t know how you do it. It is entirely too much pressure. I share, I bleed, I worry how you will take it, I wonder what you want to read, I worry about content, I don’t know what the fuck RSS even means, none of my pictures are the same size, I can’t own this. I came here because I needed a space to write freely. But you’re here, and you read, and you cry with me and I care because if I write a post and no one reads it was it still written? Christ, another typo??
This is my head space every time I hit publish. Multiplied exponentially when I hit “share”.
I inherited the teacher’s spirit from my mother, who got it from her father, and the line goes on. No matter what I do, I have an instinctive urge to take others with me. It’s why my posts are always 100 words longer than I want. It’s why sometimes I have to end with a “this is a work in progress”. It’s why my twitter feed is broken up into series of rants instead of individual thoughts. It’s how a two-sentence story takes me fifteen minutes to explain. I can’t help it. I’m…considerate.
Do I know my most impactful posts came from when I spoke my truth? Yep. Does this knowledge stop me from wringing my hands for three weeks wondering how to spin a thought for my “audience” to make it seem more in line with the flow of this here blog? Nope. With every bit of positive (and negative, trust me) feedback I started to care more about what people reading expected than what I had to say.
Oddly enough, the other day a question was posed on twitter as to what writers we found enviable on the app. Many answered with great and famous writers that happened to also have twitter accounts. After taking a long time to think on it I realized that while I found certain writers inspirational, entertaining, moving- my writers of envy all had one thing in common; they were inconsiderate.
Inconsiderate. They wrote when inspired. They took breaks from writing, or twitter, or the world. They lived a life worth writing about. They assumed their audience was smart enough to catch their point. They couldn’t care less if they didn’t. They wrote because they had something to say. And what they had to say, no matter how inconsistently they said it, moved people. They didn’t have an image. They were unapologetically imperfect.
And I don’t know what “writer” means when someone points to me. I don’t. I don’t know if I have a goal to move people, or to publish books, or to churn out consistent content on my blogs for a change. But I do know I get as much fulfillment out of a completed post I gouged out of my core as I do writing an entertaining yelp review. I get the same feeling when all the pieces fit together on a bit of copy as when I release a conscious tweet stream. I write. I write. I’m prone to prose. I should admit this more often. And I realize I don’t because to me, writers write. They write regularly, consistently, on-demand, perhaps even for money. I write three posts and get derailed for a week because “he” didn’t call me back. This is my life. And I’m not writing this because I care if you read it. I’m writing this so I can be okay with it.
This here thing, it takes a lot from me. So it may not be daily, or even weekly. It may be a topic that doesn’t fit. It may not have a neat ending. But I write. I write when I have something to say. I write when I can no longer fit my skin. I write to bleed out. Sometimes I’m empty and I can’t. Sometimes I need to fill up my tank with life before I can come back. And that’s okay, too.
So, consider these 700+ words my pre-emptive apology. I probably will never be able to bleed on demand. But when I’m here, you will feel it.