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Being a Writer · 9:16pm Nov 22nd, 2021

I am a writer.

I am not a writer due to always having a point. Neither am I a writer because the words flow. Sometimes, even when the words flow, they are still not good. What is good or bad. Best or worse. Depending on mood and mindset, it changes for the person, set with the same material. 

A writer is a writer because they write. Someone who writes a little, greatness or horribleness, defaults as a writer. So long as you write, type, and compose, you are a writer in an active sense. But how much time does it take for that title to be taken away? How many words have to fade from the page for your title to be revoked?

Someone who writes greatly, and must recover from that effort, surely must keep that title during that recovery. Or else people would write drivel—and only that—to prolong that status. You don't cease to be your occupation because you are on vacation. 

But the truth is none of that matters. It's a quick and idle introspection for the amusement of following a fault chain of logic. The importance of being a writer is not always writing or having something to say. 

But to have the medium to speak when it is needed. 

I cannot tell you that my stories or blogs are good. The closest I come to quality is in my poetry and quotes—because they are short, and there is enough suffering in daily life to easily stuff them. But I don't look back on my previous works and words with regret.

Beyond the wish for a snip of scissors, a better spell checker, and to have the arrogance deflated from my letter—restoring it to lowercase. 

Because writing goes beyond the high enjoyment from the sight of views and comments. It transcends its written period—retaining watermarks of its time—to reveal the encapsulation of something

Many issues poisoned me before. Matters cannot be taken to family or friends for one reason or another. There are some conversations you can only have with yourself. Until you can find the form to support that, then you carry a dense weight within, like chained, underwater mines, waiting to be knocked or surface or, worst, blown.

Writing has always been about mining and carrying away that weight. Breaking apart the pieces, aspects of yourself and an issue, and either ascertaining what it is to yourself—or resolving it from yourself. To write is to plunder inward.

I cannot say that I am a writer for the easiest answer: I write. 

Because there have gone times where I do not write. My status as a writer is gone from both myself and others. The people around me don't see me like that. When you are not dreaming up stories in your head or stuffing your soul into your word processor of choice, then like an old job, you hardly remember what you did there.

I've always burned with the notion that I would be a writer. The word always struck out, and stories about them called to me. I played Alan Wake as a kid, maybe, for that factor alone. But many, as kids and adults, think they are meant to be a thing and, as life goes on, it never happens, or never the way they thought. 

Even though writer surged like a myth or symbol inside of me, it was not enough to justify my status as such. I also wanted to be a cop, hero, photographer, and bear superpowers when I was a kid. I felt them strongly during that time.

And I am none of the above.

So what makes me a writer? When I am away, where nothing in my life revolves around it, when I have no claim to be a writer because nothing I have written has been any good... what cause do I have to stick around? I am a lousy writer to many people and to a majority of myself. 

And rarely do I improve and, when I do, it isn't enough to save me from that horrible status. Maybe I am a sort of person, by fate, limited to a certain competence. Other people. Other, capable people, are destined for better. 

You, in your limitation, are meant to stay bad and, because of that, should give up on the arts. 

This would be a fair view if being a writer meant writing well and telling good stories. I'd never have the chops to be a scriptwriter. But, then again, I have never fallen toward that, or have I felt the need to push myself there. 

And regardless of what happens with my writing, good or bad, seen or ignored, I keep coming back. I come back for the same reason we speak. Same reason we think. The difference between existing and being alive. 

Because the unknown lurks within us. 

We do not know the extent of the depths of ourselves. What we might come to do in being tortured or how we would handle a revelation that goes against all that we know. What becomes of the identity of the confident man who finally acts cowardly? What becomes the core of the person whose unconditional love is truly tested?

In the latter case, where I had to see how deep my horribleness went, I took to writing to deal with that emotional weight. I knew nothing about love or myself until brought into that situation. It was only through writing about it that I learned about it and about myself. 

Self-discovery, and the creation and understanding of a belief, aren't degraded by spelling mistakes or poor syntax. The typed words that bring you to tears aren't any less powerful because you didn't send it off with a period. 

Through living and writing through that time, I had found that unconditional is not something you have. It's an easy thing to say but, when you're a terrible person like me, you're unsure if you can truly feel it. Where it is a genuine part of your being, of your existence.

Not something you say because it's the socially right thing to do.

Not something you say because there are external expectations.

But something, when you turn off the light and deafen the ears, resounds inside of you.

Writing allowed me to explore my horribleness. To wonder if my pain for so long as for sure and that my love could be turned off by a confession and change. Writing allowed me to process it all without restraints—and to reach deep inside. 

And without force, I found that my love had grown, and that I came to accept and love that person as they were. That love did not come to be due to promises or social pressure. It was something I tended to within. Naturally, it grew and came to be that way. 

Through writing, I found that unconventional love isn't a stockpile. It isn't immediately accepting—regardless of whatever your mouth is forced to say. It takes some time. It requires thinking and feeling. But if you focus on it long enough, that love will grow in the direction it should go. 

Learning that love is something that grows, rather than being something that you already have in spades, helped me get over that time.

And that is the point of all of this. 

Why I feel like I can call myself a writer. 

Because it is not about the stories of the followers or the depth of the average comment. Writing, and being a writer, is however you choose to define it. Through writing about writing, I've come to learn what writing is for me. And it's through that sentence alone what writing means to me. 

The ability to process, learn, and grow. 

Because I do not know the worth of these words after I am gone. If others have felt or learned from them—if any, after a few months, I will come to read this essay again, if any of my points stick like a thumbtack somewhere in their existence. 

But I know that I can return to these blogs to be reassured. That I can see old, exercised demons, and roll my shoulders more loosely than I could before. That it's a way to write stories that I want to read. That I can craft prose that I enjoy seeing. 

Being a writer isn't about wanting to write. 

It's about having something to write about. 

And helping to learn what looms beneath your blank surface. That sinks to glinting treasures of forgotten feelings and memories. It's an encapsulation of your life.

I am a writer because I have something to write, even when the subject isn't clear, and all I do is ramble about the nothingness. I don't know if writing is a process or a tool. A friend or a means of introspection. Some call it a reflection. Others, a craft. Few label it an art. 

But writing is whatever you need it to be.

A cheap story to buy you a meal.

An essay that shouts in support of something you love. 

A tale to wank the gank.

And a blog, such as this, reassures me—even a little—of why I best exist as black text on a white background.

I don't know what writing is or does for you. I cannot suggest that it be more or less than as needed for yourself. I made that mistake a long time ago with several people—and it was me, and my expectations, that are at fault. 

All I can hope for you, dear reader, whether you write or only read, that when you need it, that writing is there for you, and that it answers your doubts, soothes your pains, entertains your spirit, enlightens your souls, and educates your mind.

That it fulfills your request for it.

Please be well.
~ Yr. Pal Inside the World of the Prose, B

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Comments ( 5 )

Love that image of Rarity!

B_25 #2 · Nov 22nd, 2021 · · 1 ·

Notice any mistakes? Please feel free to either comment or message me!

Thanks for being a pal. :D


Wow that is some mad Serendipity literally 30 seconds ago I finish sending a p.m. to Jake the army guy suggesting that he should do an artist Spotlight for the person who drew that top picture

Nice artwork! And your speech was lovely.

I also wanted to be a cop, hero, photographer, and bear superpowers when I was a kid. I felt them strongly during that time.

And I am none of the above.

Anyone who's ever taken a picture is a photographer. Not that it makes you a good photographer, mind you.

Sure, you may not know about f-stops, exposure time, white balance, depth of field, and so on and so forth; that just means that you're not a professional photographer.

One of the miracles of modern technology is that it's turned everyone with a smartphone into amateur photographers, and we're all the better for it.

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