What It Means To Be A Writer

It’s a question often asked of writers, mostly, I find, by themselves. Allow me, if you will, to digress from the original mission statement of this blog, and to talk for a little while on what being a writer means to me.

 

I’m 22 years old. I’ve not long graduated from university, with a degree in Creative Writing and English Literature. I didn’t do amazing things at university. I wrote a few interesting bits here and there, but what I mainly got out of the whole experience was a chance to escape from home. I should have grabbed the opportunity with both hands, learnt all I could from the amazing lecturers I had (one of whom, the fabulous Mimi Thebo, can be found here). I regret missing the opportunity, sure, but there’s no point in looking back. All I can do is move forward.

 

I currently write this blog (intermittently, as you can well see), as well as writing for a movie website (www.lostinthemultiplex.com) a lot less than I should be, and at the same time trying to get somewhere with the novel I started writing in my third year. It sounds like I’m doing an awful lot, but I’m not. I’m not doing anywhere near as much as I should be. I’m currently working two part time jobs, one in a call centre, which is, for lack of a better expression, completely soul destroying, and one in retail, in a shop I adore. Even though these are both part time, I find myself so exhausted by the time that I get home, that it takes all my strength to rise from the sofa and do some writing.

 

And this kills me.

 

A few years ago, a thought strayed across my mind, from nowhere, and a feeling of absolute fear took over my body. I thought of myself in twenty years, unable to write. I don’t mean physically unable to write, just without the time, or the facility, to write. I can’t think of anything worse, I simply can’t. To me, that is what it means to be a writer.

 

Even though I so rarely put pen to paper, or finger to keyboard as it were, I am constantly writing. I frequently go out for cigarettes (I know, I’m trying to quit) at 2 or 3 in the morning, and my head is racing with ideas. I’m constructing sentences, hell, whole paragraphs, of my novel in my head. Dialogue is so easy to write in my head, and yet so difficult to put down in words. I need to get a dictaphone. The great tragedy of this though, is of course that none of this ever gets written. It remains in my head, and that destroys me a little bit. I have written fantastic paragraphs, invented interesting, unique plots, and not even I, let alone the world, will ever see them. It may not be a loss to the world, but to me, it’s a tragedy.

 

Every now and then I’ll write a few thousand words here and there, and give myself a little pat on the back. It’s not enough, and I know it isn’t. But a part of me has resigned myself to the fact that writing will more than likely become a hobby, rather than an aspiration. I’m okay with that, I think.

 

Since I was very, very young, my mind has been racing with these ideas for stories, characters have appeared fully formed in my head. The fact that I have managed to even get a tenth of those onto paper fills me with joy. Even if nobody else ever sees them, I at least have the knowledge that they are there. Would I like to become a proper writer(whatever that is)? Of course I would. I want it more than anything in this world. I’m my own worst enemy though. If I don’t write, then how the hell can I ever expect to be a writer.

 

I call myself a writer, but am I one? A large part of me feels as though I’m simply masquerading in a writer’s clothes.

 

And the self pity ends…..here!