I’m Not a Writer

Sooooo, Then Watcha Doin’ Writing?

There was a time that I wanted to make a life out of writing. At 18 years old, I remember walking around Boston with my head to the sky. I was convinced that I was going to Emerson College. I was going to have my own book one day.

A writer.

That was the dream.

I see some of the friends I’ve made here getting involved in writing groups, and part of me is envious. I wish I could say that I came to Medium to find people who would help me grow my art. Or that I would be comfortable being part of a community where we would read each other’s work and advise one another on ways to improve.

I want to have patience to share my work with people. To listen to their constructive feedback without allowing it to tear me down. But right now, my brain doesn’t work that way. Unfortunately for my audience, I’m not looking to get any better at writing.

I don’t want to hear suggestions for edits or how to change my words.

I just need to get them out of me.

There are times the ideas form urgently.

So much so that I can’t think of anything else. I’ll find myself knee deep in the dailies of life while simultaneously composing my latest article in the space above my head. I’ll go over the words a hundred times before I even sit down to actually type it up.

I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. But I still don’t consider myself very skilled, mostly because I’m stubborn about changing my style. I know there is shit I could be doing better.

Before this stint on Medium, my efforts had been funneled into meeting expectations rather than owning who I was as a creator. Writing school assignments was simple. I learned what the teachers wanted, and I delivered.

I made sure to use the appropriate transition words. There were always enough sentences in each paragraph. I never started with a preposition. Grammar and spelling were on point.

Boring.

I never did end up at Emerson, but instead found myself taking the safe route. I chose a career in the healthcare field where the starting salary was high and job placement was 100%. I even published a book finally, my dissertation, but it wasn’t anything like I expected it to be.

When at last, I held that black leather-bound book in my hands, it filled me with resentment. There was no joy. There was no pride. Was this a testament of my life’s work? Would I spend the rest of time mindlessly checking the “appropriate” boxes?

Writing has never been far from my mind. It wasn’t going to sit on a shelf for long, but I needed to do it my way.

Here on Medium, I don’t write because I want to. I write because I have to.

There are months where it spills out of me, and then there are times I’ve got nothing to offer.

When it hits, it’s intense.

The words build up in my brain and kick the shit out of me until I get them out.

I love memoirs. I love real stories. Fiction is amazing, but after everything I’ve seen IRL, I’m not pulled to that genre.

There was a time, not long ago, that I wondered why I stopped writing in my journal. It was a mystery to me. Why I would turn my back on my muse?

Now I know.

My journal wasn’t cutting it. There was no satisfaction in pouring my soul into a holding tank that no one would ever touch, until possibly my death.

I’m here because I want to tell my stories. I want to analyze them, dissect them, understand them. I want to connect with people through them. I want people to feel less alone after reading them. I want them to feel seen.

Selfishly, I want to be seen.

Did I go through all of these ups and downs to just let them live alone in the circus in my head?

I don’t have a huge fan base, but I want to reach that one person lurking in the corner. The one that doesn’t comment, highlight, or clap, but reads and thinks…

“Shit…I’m not alone.”

I’m here for that. I crave it. I want to be that little bit of light that breaks through.

Go on, use me up. You have my permission.

Because I’ve been that person before. For years, I’ve read articles without engaging, and I still do it today. It might be because I don’t think I have something important enough to share, or that the author wouldn’t really care if I said anything at all. But the words hit me just the same.

I find them when I need to. When I’m down. When I need a hand up. And those are the words that keep me going.

Now I want to pay it forward and offer mine.

I love my audience dearly, but I don’t generally care about what they want to read.

Well, fuck you too?

What I mean is that I’m not writing to please you. I’m not selling myself for another ten cents on medium. I need to do this for myself, regardless of if you witness it or not.

Instead of perfecting my writing, I’m using my words to help me grow and learn. Uncovering what’s been long hidden in the process.

In conclusion, I could write about anything, but as a reader, you would easily be able to tell whether I gave a fuck or not about what I’ve decided to banter on about.

What makes my writing special is the passion that I put into it.

I’m giving you all of me here.

I appreciate Monster Alley for creating a safe inclusive space to talk about our writing journeys, as different as they all may be. I do feel bad about not participating more in this month’s prompt madness. We still have 2 days if you want to get in on it! (Here’s a list of the prompts!) One day I hope to be here writing just for fun, but first I must get all this “gunk” out.

You know what I mean, right The Accidental Monster?

❤

Christine

You Good?

I hope you are!

P.S. If you’re interested in what I was so caught up in this month, check out the beginning of my mental health series. I found myself hitting the wall on that one. There are still two or three more articles I need to add to complete it. For now I’ll just have to wait until it stirs within me again. Shouldn’t be too long.

;)