Tonight Etienne and I just needed to talk. It was one of those nights when you just want to have a few drinks and just discuss, anything and everything that is stimulating.
At one point, we talked about my writing. Etienne follows this blog (hi babe!), so he's gotten to know my writing style. I'm not sure if he's ever read any of my academic efforts, and I do know that in a moment of impaired judgement (literally...we had both been drinking), I did show him a couple of my poems. But whatever he's read, he's familiar with the idea that my voice really comes out in my writing.
So his obvious question is why I've never gone so far as to actually write. We have a friend who writes on the side, has self-published several of his works; so why wasn't I, since I do love to write?
It's because of this:
I'm very good at communicating in writing. At work I'm often complimented on my writing skills. In my academic life, I'm a strong, persuasive writer, and I find ways to invest myself in my topic, which comes out. My poetry is not the stuff of Wordsworth, but I've figured out by now that it can tend to be quite lyrical, which would be great if I had any talent for writing music (but I don't). But for all of this, I have no story to tell; or rather, I haven't found my story to tell.
They say to write what you know, but to this point all I really know is how to be a philosophical fuck-up with a knack for getting into unusual situations. Hardly the stuff of compelling reading. And without any guides to tether me, I can't reach out into the infinite possibilities and the story I can write.
So for all of that, I just don't feel that I have any business trying to write or get published. Let the others who are much better storytellers publish their gifts, and I won't clutter the world with my sheepish nonsense. Not such a bad deal!
Know thyself...
...Wish you were here.
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