So, for a long, long time, I have dreamt of being a writer.
I have always been inclined more towards English than math. When I was little I devoured books. Devoured. As in, I used to keep lists of what books I had read in a year which totaled up to over 200. Granted, I read much easier material back then, but still. I loved and love reading.
I’m not sure when I decided “yes, I want to be a writer.” I’m not sure if my reasoning behind it is altruistic, or if I’ve just romanticized the whole notion of being a writer. Probably a bit of both. You see, I love words. I love stories. I like writing, when I have a topic set to write about. I also like the idea of working at home, drinking coffee, and being recognized.
But, as the years pass, I have so many thoughts swirling in my head and I don’t have anything to say. I’m a pretty quiet person and I also have an issue with caring too much about what thinks of me. Caring too much about what others think is destructive in any endeavor, particularly those of the creative kind, I’ve observed.
What I’m trying to say is that I want to be a writer but have no words. Akin to saying I want to be a chef but have no food (really?). No, not really.
I’m not sure if I’m just making excuses for my lack of hard focus on writing everyday, as all the greats do. But let me just say this- I don’t want to put out trifling work about silly stuff. I also don’t want to write about what anyone else has or could. This could be tricky.