Agony and Irony
The admission of want is an opening to vulnerability. The claiming of a dream is a terrifying admission of want, like voicing your one mortal fear. There is a sense that such a thing, once let loose in the universe, may fall into the wrong hands and become our undoing, our Achilles heel. Or maybe that’s just cowardice talking. It occurs to me that I am often afraid to own the things I want most deeply.
What do I have to say that’s worth saying to the world? What is there of any worth in me that justifies its declaration to thousands? If I have nothing to say but say it well, is that good enough? Perhaps, again, that’s just cowardice talking. Maybe I should stop pontificating and have a good long look at the issues.
First, the terrifying truth; I want to be a writer. I’m pretty sure of it and it scares the shit out of me. What makes me any different than the hundreds of thousands of wannabe writers who can’t get published every year? There are housewives and businessmen, students and young prodigies, bitter old women and hopeful young ones, all believing they have the voice, the talent, the vision required to nail the mark. So many of them are wrong. What makes me think I’ll be successful where they have failed? Because a couple of people tell me I write well? Color me cynical.
The most obvious obstacle one faces in becoming a writer is the ability to write well. I think you need a unique voice, consistently and sharply represented. Sometimes I say what I want to say the way I want to say it. In those times I am satisfied, even if only until the fourth or fortieth examination, at which point I become suddenly and painfully aware of my own pretentiousness. My fascination with words leads me into affectation with disappointing consistency. I only want to be authentic, genuine, fresh, straightforward, even primitive in my writing. It’s a goal I chase constantly with varying degrees of success. So many dozens of other people are so much better at it.
Even if by some measure I do write well, I don’t know what I have to say. I’m not a very good storyteller. I’m too impatient to allow characters and plots to develop naturally. I get bored, and if a story can’t even hold the writer’s attentionÂ…. So let’s say I decide to write observational essays, verbal snapshots of my perspective colored by my own mix of weird humor and possibly presumptuous insights. Why in the world would anyone want to know what I think about anything?
The biggest issue for me, besides my debilitating fear of failure, is my lack of discipline. I promised myself I would write something every day this week, but it’s Wednesday already and this is my first attempt. I promised myself I would make some headway with The Boyfriend Chronicles regardless of whether or not I intend to use them, and I haven’t done anything but re-read and critique. I haven’t even edited any of it.
So right there are three pretty solid reasons to talk myself out of pursuing this potentially heartbreaking idea. I could walk away from it, once and for always. I could choose something else, something practical that will provide medical benefits and a safety net for my retirement. I could add more reasons ‘why not’ to this list and hang them on the fridge. Then every time I wonder why I’m so dissatisfied and restless, I’ll look at it and remember that dissatisfied and restless is better than disappointed and broke. My choice of words will be so convincing, so final, that I will never again dare to wonder why I never took the chance.