I’ve wanted to write for a long time, the same way people start every year wanting to “get in shape.” I talk about it a lot, to anyone who’ll listen to me. I bookmark blogs. I follow writers on Instagram. I start things, sentences, and then delete them. I once bought a book about writing. I never opened it.
My original purpose was to express myself, to get things off my chest, to get a reaction. I thought I’d be semi-decent at it, but also always felt people should know something about whatever they were writing about. And that people should be real writers.
I wrote a couple of essays for friends, looking up the required information between battles in Clash of Clans. One thing on the World Cup. Another on socio-economic parallels between South America and Africa. Something on passports and MBAs. It all felt very fraud-ey. An opinion and wi-fi doesn’t make you a writer.
I feel for stock traders. Day-time television is full of promotions for books on “trading secrets,” and morning radio offers seats at trading seminars where you can “learn to trade like a pro!” in a weekend. People fork over $89.99 for a shitty 5 hour course, then jump into the market where they proceed – to their amazement – to lose thousands of dollars of their savings.
You wouldn’t ever let a stranger with a “doctoring secrets” certificate from an online course call themselves a doctor and treat you. Definitely wouldn’t let an angsty teen with two hour groupon for a medieval fair represent you in trial-by-combat. But traders get this daily – citizens by the thousands calling themselves traders and shoveling their hard-earned money off windy cliffs in pursuit of profit. Not many other hard-working professionals have their calling so openly disrespected.
Except maybe writers.
Every twat with an internet connection and an Amazon account now is a published author. I really wanted to avoid adding to the problem.
My 30th birthday caught me by surprise. I spent a day thinking about a day I spent thinking about writing: I was 20, and I was standing by the window of my bedroom in one of the “suites” in the north building the International House in Manhattan. It was hot, noisy, dusty, altogether appropriate for deep thoughts. A few key decisions taken that day: (1) to take my faith more seriously (2) to get married by 28 (3) to write a book. Epic.
I have done none of those things, and am especially far from the writing, which I’ve actively avoided. My vocabulary is shrinking. My punctuation is awful (I’m especially careless with ellipses). But I’m 30. And I still think about it, and about lots of other things. I rant nightly at whoever will listen to me, about whatever is within striking distance. The ongoing presidential campaign (if you like euphemisms) is reliable fodder.
I read a lot of articles online, easily blowing through the 10 hours-a-day researchers say the average person spends staring at a screen. People write all sorts of things. Intelligent, funny, bland, short, long, inflammatory, benign, thoughtful, ignorant…it’s all out there. I bookmark the good writing, and shake my head at the bad, recently acknowledging that even the head-shake recipients have something up on me. They’re writing.
I have to believe they feel some pride in getting their thoughts out there, and in doing something they said they would. They haven’t bothered about not being “real writers,” or not having anything to write about, or not knowing enough. Where there is no pedigree, they have practice. Where there has been little research, there is “opinion,” and the world embraces it (no matter how daft it might be). To every “writer” I’ve rolled my eyes at, I owe an apology. I want to be like you.
So here is my attempt at redemption, mostly for my own sake. I don’t have a subject matter or key focus area. I don’t have a schedule to publish on. I can’t swear by the quality of what you’ll read, but I know I’ll enjoy writing it. I do hope for your sake the writing gets better over time. And that I don’t lose you in the lack of focus. And that I can make up for lost time.