Writing about being a writer might seem like an odd topic to you.
I don’t blame you for feeling that way at all. It is a bit of an odd topic to write about.
The truth is that life as unknown writer is probably very similar to everyone else’s life.
I go to work, I come home and I do me.
The difference is…that when you have a dream…you’re constantly followed by never ending doubt.
Now don’t get me wrong…I know that doubt follows most people wherever they go.
This blog isn’t about organising a pity party. I don’t fuck with that. I don’t want pity.
Especially not for something as trivial as the way I feel about being a writer.
So – why am I writing this?
Because I am a writer.
This is the best way I know how to express what I’ve got to say. It’s the only trick I have up my sleeve.
Writing is my superpower.
Unless it’s not. Unless it’s just something I’m mildly good at and I don’t have what it takes.
See, that’s what I mean. Being a good writer is so important to me that it takes up a large amount of my own self worth.
If I’m not actually good at this, then what the hell am I doing?
Writing is more than something I do. It’s apart of who I am. It’s in my veins, in my bones…radiating through me from my core.
So much so that…when people slide into my DM’s they’re guaranteed to get my attention if they compliment my writing.
Don’t tell me I’m pretty. Tell me you like my poetry. That means so much more to me.
I’ve taken to reading my poems aloud on my Instagram story lately. Why? Because I want you to feel it.
Reading something second hand off a screen or a piece of parchment will never be as powerful as hearing my warm breath whisper it in your ear, or my angry heart beat the words into a microphone.
Poetry should be felt. Not read. You should feel it in your veins as though the words were already circulating through your body and you just needed me to pull them to the surface.
There are a few choice poets who are capable of breathing life into a cold page so that you can feel the heat of their words rising out of the ink and into the air around you.
Charles Bukowski comes to mind.
If you don’t know who he is…google him, right now. He is a genius.
We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at he odds and live our lives so well that death will tremble to take us.CHARLES BUKOWSKI
It’s funny how important outside validation is to me as a writer.
In every other part of my life I am quite happy to do me and be happy. No need for anyone else to tell me it’s good enough.
As a writer though…I feel very differently.
Words are meant to have an impact. They have power beyond just the ability to communicate.
They can hit you.
They can hit you harder, and more acutely than the world’s greatest rifleman.
They can lift you up and break you down in the same sentence.
I love you.
I hate you.
I am indifferent.
Three little words. Three little words with the power to make or break your day depending on who delivers them.
I hope that one day I can bring justice to that power and use my words to lift people up as so many artists have done before me.
My words are always special to me though.
And even if no one ever feels them in their bones like I feel the words of J.Cole, Rupi Kaur, Machine Gun Kelly and Beau Taplin in my bones…they will continue to be my super power.
They are my bridge from pain to power. They are my anchor in unfamiliar territory and my lifeboat in troubled waters.
My poems pull me back to who I am at my core when everything around me seems unsteady and unsure.
They remind me of what I have overcome without pulling me back to the pain I had to run from.
They are my voice when I find myself completely incapable of speech.
And yet, at every turn I find myself doubting their worth to anyone other than myself.
As a writer, I find myself constantly second guessing my creative pursuits. Maybe it’s time to leave the poems in my journal where they belong and lose myself to the world of SEO and marketing.
After all, that’s the most stable career move a writer could make in our modern world.
I mean let’s be honest…no one reads anything anymore.
We watch five minute YouTube videos, have Spotify playing all day and spend out nights in bed with Netflix instead of a book.
So, any attempt at creativity becomes an argument between my heart and my head.
My hearts says, fuck it. This shit is who you are.
My head says, bills, bills, bills. And as sad as that is…it’s a valid argument.
I get lost in waves of self doubt throughout the day and I pull myself out of them just long enough to pump out a poem or a blog post.
That’s what its like to want something so badly but know the odds are stacked against you.
That’s why it means so much to me when y’all like my poems, react to my blog or even just watch me read a poem aloud on Instagram until the very end.
It might seem small to you but to me its validation that even if I’m making progress at the rate of dying snail…I’ve still got something worth saying and something worth hearing.
So, I guess this blog is a thank you to anyone that has ever sent me love or support as a writer.
If I ever make a damn thing of myself as a writer…it will be your kindness that allowed me to continue pushing this cart up the hill. I won’t forget that.
Be kind, my loves.