Writer with a capital Wuh

salt-driftwoodAt some point toward the end of earning my English degree, it occurred to me that there was a fundamental discrepancy between myself and my peers. I listened during class discussions, I saw all the hours put into drafts, I observed body language, tone of voice, diction, and I realized something. At some indeterminate point in that three years, each one of my peers became a Writer. Some of them showed up on campus as a doe-eyed freshman already a Writer. Some of them made the metamorphosis during their Capstone projects. For most of them it was somewhere in between. But as I glided across the stage to receive my extremely expensive Official Piece of Card Stock, I didn’t see myself as a Writer.

I had done plenty of writing to get to that point – I passed all my classes and read all the books – but I didn’t have that voracious, permeating sight that seemed to set Writers apart from people who wrote. Even when it wasn’t for an assignment, I never found writing fun. It was cathartic, introspective, purifying, but I never felt giddy or found myself grinning for no reason after a draft.

These were my thoughts upon my graduation. Everyone else had Changed. They needed to write in order to be themselves. I didn’t. Therefore, I wasn’t a Writer. So now that the impetus was gone, there were no deadlines or assignments, I stopped writing. Oddly enough pretty soon after that I began again, but of an entirely different sort. Instead of the content, the form was the focus now. Calligraphy. I wrote for hours and hours a day, but they were never my words. Only my body, my wrist and hand, made my writing appealing.

So, welcome to my blog. I hope that introduction gave some context. I’ve tried to land the plane and give my idea of what a Writer really is, whether or not I am one, and why that matters, but the sentences jumble and twist and make no sense. So I’ll answer those questions later.

So, yes, this may end up being a blog full of answerless questions. But it’s mine.

My husband just told me that he loves when I write. I asked him why.

“It’s a permanent conversation. It’s a conversation that I can’t forget, and it’s full of your voice.”

And voice, my friends, is a whole other story.


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