If being a writer is like the unpredictable path of a drifter, then the very thought of accepting your passion to pursue this literary journey is as frightening as the puzzling maps and foreign road signs.
Why be a writer? You are entirely aware you are unable to live on your writing; you would starve to death along with the other poor souls who are naive enough to believe they could make a living off of their writing alone. Forget money. You know the chances of being one of the few writers who become famous in their own right are slim to none… you’re content with living a solitary, financially meager life.
Society tells you to be safe. Take the safe route: become a nurse, a banker, an insurance broker. You can’t. You hate the confused looks you get when you declare you want to be a writer, and loath the insufferable response they give you following your assertion: “Good for you, what’s plan A though?” You agree it’s a lot easier to just fall into the corporate world and live a secure life; they congratulate you on your success in the business world, your annual promotion and meticulously cut grass… yawn. You hate the very idea of living so concrete and continue to furiously attack page after page with your weapon of choice, a pen.
Though, that’s it, the pen. The pen is your cavalry, your strategy when trying to attack the mysteries of the world; it is your third limb that seems to work aimlessly with your chattering mind. You write because you must. You feel a need to write. While others indulge themselves in the congenial world of yah’s and nah’s you insist on venturing into a realm of unknown.
Why not risk it? Your voice is ink. The paper listens. So what? They enjoy the nine to five routine while you prefer the blending of your days into nights where there is no concept of time. They want pot lucks and office parties; you want midnight coffee breaks with the stray cat who strategically sits on your fence while you write.
It is a necessity. By writing, you reveal a part of yourself that was hidden amongst the chaos of your existing world- an absurd world. You write out of love, hate, forgiveness, forgetting, anxiety and sadness. You may have something to communicate to others or something to hide that only that piece of paper will keep secret. All you truly know is that you have this incurable desire to attack that page like a pure obsession.
You recognize the life of a writer is walking along the same path as that drifter; standing, vulnerable, in the shifting winds on a desert road. You’re walking to a destination that is vague and uncertain. The very thought makes beads of sweat fall down your face, shift in your chair and nervously twitch. The fear. It is this undying panic that makes everything clearer, everything defined. It is this very feeling that makes you grab that pen and write it all down.
