I want to be a writer.
This simple thought has floated it's way up to the front of my consciousness frequently over the last few decades of my life. Never before had it walloped me in the face quite like this. Apparently my little writer-bug had gotten tired of buzzing around, out of focus all these years. The time had come for a more aggressive approach.
THWAP! Yes, a writer, that's it! Why hadn't I thought of that before. (writer-bug rolls eyes and flutters around smuggly behind my eyes)
An indescribable and unexpected confidence exploded over me. I felt... no I knew, that I was going to be great. Hell yes! I was going to be a writer! Grammar? Pssh, that can be relearned. Style? Pssh, it's me we are talking about here. Skill? A year hasn't gone by without at least one person telling me I write like Shelley, and I haven't even been trying! That has to mean something right?
For those first few weeks of realization I soared through life. Giddy doesn't even begin to describe it. Despite the excitable joy, or maybe because of it, I didn't trust this new confidence. Being a militant realist, I did what any normal person would do. I tried to blow apart my self-made pedestal before I welded my likeness on high.
I started reading Writer's Digest and "How to Be a Writer" sites. I devoured "On Writing" and "On Writing Well." I looked up the backgrounds and bios of my favorite authors to see how they started out. I wrote out reason upon reason that I couldn't possibly do this and should be ashamed of even contemplating it. The result? An unexpected leveling up. Enter super-mega-uber-narcissistic confidence. Apparently, despite the internal fight between my new super-powered confidence and my equally vocal pessimistic army of logic, my resolve to be a writer was remarkably left unshaken.
Until this afternoon I was worried that I wasn't that militant realist I thought I was. Until this afternoon that deliriously intoxicating new confidence remained coursing through me. My little writer-bug was pleased.
Until this afternoon, until I met 24.
24 is a writer. Not any writer. 24 holds a degree in English, has written nine novels in the last five years, runs a freelance business, and works as an editor for a major international company. 24 became "agented" today and has managed to accomplish all of this by the annoyingly fresh age of (you guessed it) 24.
THWAP! Enter the overdue insecurity-hangover. Where did I get off thinking I could do this? What made me any different than the millions of amateurs out there who get bitten by the writing bug every year? Who the hell did I think I was?!?
The pessimistic army let out a collective sigh of relief, we were finally coming to our senses. Writer-bug folded it's wings and threw me a heck of a heart wrenching pouty face as it flitted back into the dark corners of my brain. My gilded pedestal came down with a resounding thud, settling deep in my gut. The collection of reasons I shouldn't do this finally sank in, leaving me drenched in self-doubt. I wasn't perfect and my talent wasn't a guarantee, heck it may not even exist so why bother. Leave the writing to 24.
This thought floated around in the forefront of my brain for a fleeting second. Until...
THWAP! Writer-bug zipped angrily back to give it the boot and reclaim it's new home. It was going to give up that easy, and neither was I.
In the end, I am truly thankful for meeting 24. That brief crash into reality allowed a new, realistic, and deeply rooted confidence to rear it's head from the wreckage of my temporary tryst with narcissism.
I do know what I'm doing. I know I'm largely starting from scratch. That doesn't mean I won't make it. Insecurity is a right of passage. You lean into it, embrace it, let it inspire you to greatness. It sure as hell doesn't mean this journey is over.
At the very least I'm a shoo-in as a comic book interjection writer.
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