A confession: I Am Not A Writer
I don't know why I’m so scared. The feeling of my fingertips against this keyboard is repulsive. I am not a writer. Perhaps I earned that title in the past, but not now. Every word I type seems offensive to the page, an offense to writing and the English language itself. My words no longer flow, but instead are a jumbled-up, awkward array of words in an attempt to communicate something utterly incommunicable. Though how egotistical of me to expect my writing to be anything of substance, toe to toe with Shakespeare himself, when I have not written in a year. Well, that’s a lie, I have technically ”written.” Put pen to paper, typed the occasional notes app poem or rant amid my weekly existential crisis. But that’s not writing. At least not how I consider it. And perhaps that is conceited of me, constituting what is and isn’t writing. But I don’t consider any of that representative of me. Sure, it’s me in the midst of mental anguish and desperation—but it’s not art. It isn’t what I strive to create.
I will do anything but write. I spin in my chair for hours, maladaptive daydreaming to the same 10 songs on repeat. Or maybe I’ll passively watch the same YouTube videos until they become my second language, and I’m finishing the script on their behalf, well, what I catch in passing amongst my doom-scrolling. I will do everything but what I so-called “love” to do. What I’m $6,000 in debt for. The dreadful question everyone asks young 20-somethings, “So what are you doing?” The “doing” being mildly vague and weighted in potential judgment. As always, I respond in a cautious and faux-confident voice, “English!” and the responses range between a half-assed attempt to care, as I didn’t say anything related to STEM, and curiosity that typically leads to the follow-up question of “So you want to be a teacher?” I say no, interest dwindles from there. I can’t say what I really want to do because I do everything but that. And if I do, I must lead with what I want my “real” job to be, because writing can’t possibly be my primary source of income. But back to what I was saying, I don’t write. Instead, showers after work have become a ritual of sorts for me; a white-hot cleansing from the day. And I can’t help but peep outside my window one, two, three, four times as if I can somehow control the incessant noise from upstairs if I could just see their faces. And I didn’t start writing until maybe 15 minutes before my partner came home, a pattern I keep repeating. I’ve been working on this for over a week, excitedly telling my coworker I am finally writing again. I am “writing” again, just garbage. Nothing of substance.Nothing meaningful. Self-pitying and hollow at worst, elementary and mediocre at best. And perhaps I’m being too harsh on myself. I'm not the worst writer in the world—Colleen Hoover exists. But still, she writes. She has repeatedly completed the process of brainstorming, writing, editing, and publishing, no matter how horrific and questionable it may be. She is a writer; I am not.
If I can bear a sentence and be honest with myself, I don’t take writing seriously. I don’t take myself seriously. I don’t consider any of this a possible career choice. If I did, I would do it. Consistently. Earnestly. I wouldn’t talk about it, but have something to show for it. But instead, I have, whatever this is. A confession? A journal entry? Possible inspiration for a fellow tortured artist, minus the art; that’s always a work in progress of course. And if I am to treat “this” as something sacred and stop writing for an imaginary audience, and instead for myself, maybe I'd admit that I’ve lost my passion. My spark. I have forgotten the feeling of strained fingers typing against my laptop, or the evading grip of my pen as my palms begin to sweat from the fervent swaying motion; a welcomed trade-off for finally getting into a rhythm. When suddenly, the words start flowing, and in those moments, writing isn’t something that I do; it’s what I am. The reason I’m alive. But that feeling is long gone. Instead, it’s morphed into something shapeless, constantly running from me, or maybe the other way around. The moments where I think I’ve finally found it again, I’m left nauseous, always half-full, never satisfied. And if I am to put my heart on this digital white screen, then maybe I’d say I don’t know how to write, no—exist, without academic validation. An authority figure telling me what’s right and wrong: deserving of praise, admiration, and care. How can this, my writing, mean something? Be anything but a waste of time? I’m not saving lives, creating the next new technological advancements, or whatever the hell else this capitalistic hellscape has deemed meaningful (profitable). I can’t write without the looming thought that there is always something else I could be doing worth my time. A monetary or educational gain. There’s someone or something better than what I create. If there is no praise, no underlying envy at my so “obvious” genius and innate talent, and no immediate external voice to fill the void, then why write?
As I edit and reflect on what I’ve written, I’m left feeling both dumbfounded and confused about how to conclude this. I’ve forgotten what drove me to wipe the dust off my laptop and face the boundless void of an empty page in the first place. Where any of this came from. And maybe that’s okay. I am sure of one thing; I will always find myself on these pages.
