Some Melancholy and Some Hope

"I'm a writer,"

That's what I say to myself, in my mind. Where no one else can hear. Where no one can dispute, or argue or point out flaws in that simple statement. No one, but myself.

"I'm a writer," I say.

And then a voice, from the back, hidden in the shadows of cracks and crevices. Somewhere deep. It isn't a loud voice, but soft and, sometimes, though perhaps I imagine it, sorrowful.

"You aren't" it says.

The words sting, but I've heard them before, have in fact, had this conversation countless times and each time it's the same.

"Of course I am," the response is immediate and a bit defensive.

But the voice is unyielding. It knows.

"You aren't,"

My response is much the same, an echo of the first.

But the voice cannot be swayed. It comes from the deep places, the places of truth. And so the words strike true, and they hurt. The voice knows this and so, it is gentle.

"But you don't write,"

There isn't much to say back to that. I respond anyway.

"I do..." it's a weak response and as it is, it may even be a lie. I accompany it with a weaker follow up to push it into truth, if only just, "it's just been awhile,"

And even though the voice is just a voice I feel it, can almost see it, shaking it's head. It cannot be fooled, but the conversation ends. Sometimes it may go on longer, just a bit; other times it's shorter, but it's always the same, more or less. Sooner or later, the voice quiets. 

But it does not believe me, and so I do not believe myself, not deep down in those places of truth. The places we keep hidden. Outside, however, I tell myself I do believe and sometimes, I almost convince myself. Sometimes I can almost forget, but stories are always churning in my mind and where there are stories there is writing and with writing, my insecurities.

And so I tell myself, "I'm a writer,"

It starts again. 

It's an almost daily thought process, a micro conversation with myself. But lately I've grown tired, my arguments less defensive and more hollow. I've been thinking about what the voice has said, it's words and their truths. They hurt to think about, but uncomfortable truths always do. A new conversation arose today, similar, but so very different.

"I'm not a writer, am I?" the words hurt to have even thought, as if, by thinking them I was losing something precious, and in a way, I was.

"No, you aren't," the voice was almost like a gentle and comforting hand on my shoulder.

"I want to be," I felt like a child, small and helpless, surrounded by my broken dreams.

"I know," it said, the way someone would say I'm sorry.

It hurts, but life goes on. 

"I'm not a writer," I say, tasting the words and their truthfulness.

Truth always wins out in the end. And so the voice, from way in the back, down in the deep places where we hide truths we don't want to acknowledge, has nothing to say. No lie or fabrication to correct or contradict.

"I'm not a writer," I repeat, shaking my own head this time, filled with sorrow and acceptance.

And then, to my surprise, the voice.

"No, but you could be,"

- - -

I haven't written in a long time, but I think about writing often, daily even. Not just stories, but these blogs as well. I like to write and if you were to ask me why I don't I honestly wouldn't be able to give a good answer.

This was a silly story, perhaps, but a hard one to write, and yet at the same time I almost wrote it accidentally. It's fiction, but it's also not. The words still sting, but there is hope.

A writer?

I want to be. It's been a dream for such a long time, it feels as if it's become a part of who I am. 

Whether or not I'm writer is ultimately a choice. I want to be a writer, but to be a writer I have to write. I've said it before, to myself, my wife, even here on the blog. And so my dream requires action. I must do in order to make my dream something more substantial.

I stumbled on this quote tonight, and it struck me.

Ralph Waldo Emmerson said, "As long as a man stands in his own way, everything seems to be in his way."

There's the answer. The reason I haven't been writing. I think I know now. I've been in my way. It's come in the form of a lot of excuses and at it's root, it's been caused by fear. I'm coming to realize that I have a lot more fears than I ever knew, but that's good, because now, I can face them.

“All our dreams can come true, if we have the courage to pursue them.” - Walt Disney

I don't know what the future holds, but I do have hope and I'm trying to have courage.