I am a writer.
These words escape my mouth more and more often as I reply to polite strangers about what I do. I used to tell the same dull story about working for the man and being bored to death, but now I just skim over that part and get right into the heart of it: I’m a writer.
Lately, this crazy aspiration to write and to be a writer has matured in my consciousness. I’ve always been someone who writes. I’ve always enjoyed the distinction of being a decent writer among those who don’t know a colon from a comma. Friends and family tell me that I have a gift with words, but I find it hard to trust compliments paired with requests for favours: “you’re a really good writer; will you draft my essay?”
I’m not a great talker. I have a thick tongue and I’m always distracted by the deafening roar of blood pounding in my ears whenever I have to communicate verbally without a prepared script. I don’t have the knack for explaining the images in my head through the spoken word. Mostly, my conversation strikes people as both odd and dull.
I write the way I would speak if only I could translate my brain at a human pace. It could be that writing is simply more contemplative and slow than speaking, but to be honest, most of the time words pour out onto the page faster than my poor fingers can scribble.
My penmanship is that of an 8 year-old boy with sticky, jam-smeared fingers. Even so, I love writing with pen on paper. It’s like drawing with words: you just make the scratches on the page and they flow into an intricate image that says more than you ever thought you had in you to tell.
I am a writer.