I am the youngest child in my family. The baby of three. My place lies in the middle. I stand between two giants yet I am the tallest of three. My intelligence was considered “normal” to say the least. I was supposed to graduate, get a good job, and pay bills until the cemetery had space for me. My sister a valedictorian and I was an average student. My brother is intelligent, Sydney changes the channel. I wasn’t the first son or daughter, but the second of both. I would forever live in the shadow of two forces out of my control. So I wrote, wrote, wrote.
I would have Nightmares if I didn’t write for a day. I ask myself o why do you play this game? If I don’t write for a week, should I continue? Maybe a month and motivation will hit me. Then I asked myself, what would I be without the bells and whistles? What would I be without the leather exterior and the plush interior wrapped in words of a killer? I would be academic. A robot that doesn’t twirl. A lion that doesn’t roar. The bird who walks the earth. The storm without hurricanes galore. Everything that makes me beautiful would be dull.
Writing as your passion is cool and sounds good. For those of us that live in reality, writing is hard work. Passion is different from survival. The Van Gogh story scares me to death. There’s nothing worst than being recognized for your greatness after your death. You go to museums and see his blue periods. This is hell. A nightmare of his experiences.
Every time they ask me if I am a writer. I say no. I say no because I aspire. I aspire to be an artist of my life, a captain of my fate, the ship of my dreams, and I will sail in this life and the next. If I get to do whatever I want, then it is a great day and a glorious fate. If I don’t write, I’m not quite the same. I’m a little cranky, a little bitchy, I start acting like a diva. Writing is like a waterfall with a cutting cleaver.
I was never good enough to be great or bad enough to be good. I was average. I was noticed enough to be someone’s brother or sister. I may love my family, but I didn’t like the dynamics. I write to change my reality. There was a glimmer of hope. I got better. I let my moral objectivity guide my intuition using words as my compass. I read and read some more. I went places by myself and watched. I became an observer of the world as the clock ticked and tock and I realized how far I was willing to go.
So when I see that quiet person looking around saying nothing. I ask, how do you feel? What do you care about? I encourage them to say something. You didn’t hear me before, but you will rue the day. When you crossed my path and acted like I was a shadow of your day. Like I was a ghost without a shade. When I wrote you a letter and you didn’t respond. I remember and will spawn on your lawn. It’s not personal, but my memory gets fuzzy. My eyes get chinky. My shades are dreary. Don’t come near me.
Always remember that real writers write. Pay me for my troubles, I’m trying to survive.I write for the people who hide. The people’s who voice holds no category. The individuals who want to share, but don’t know how they matter. For the people who hide, I am your ally. You do matter. You are smart enough. You are the sunflower that grows in the shade. More importantly, help yourself because trust me nobody cares. People will leave you in the dark unless you show them why you matter. Take the first step and be proactive. Introduce yourself, it just might work. If you try, you’ll make it. You will be paid in doing so because real writers get paid for their thoughts. You would have lived enormously in the face of toiling in obscurity. Real writers because of non-conformity.