Over the past couple of days I think I’ve been bit by some sort of bug. Not a literal bug (although my legs are Christmas tree’d with mosquito bites), but a newfound craving. No…not newfound…reloaded. It’s like an exciting new reboot in a series that lost it’s steam (here’s to you, Spider-man), and I kinda feel like the pressure is mounting.
I’m talking about writing. I’m a writing major, am I not? But does that make me a writer? And what makes someone a writer in the first place? Is it someone who simply decides to write? How much do they have to write? Every day? Every week? Couple of times a month? And what do they write? Novels, blogs, screenplays? What the hell is it that makes someone a writer?
I don’t know. I’m not going to pretend to know either. All I know is that I feel like one. When 75% of my day is spent craving my blog, or when I excitedly jot down character notes from a potential novel, I feel like a writer. Or the way blank notebooks excite me to death with all the potential ink could bleed to the page, and how I listen to movie soundtracks while I drive so I can plan out character dialogue in my head. Those things make me feel like a writer.
Although all too often, I do find myself feeling like the aforementioned Spider-man. I’m talking Tobey Macguire Spidey, namely in the first sequel. He lost his wall-climbing, web-slinging abilities, and sometimes I feel like I’ve lost a power of my own. Actually, I sometimes wonder if I ever had a gift in the first place. While my little “I feel like a writer” diatribe may seem a brief inspiration, I can’t even begin to describe how often I wring my hands, roar like a beast, and cut off potential posts with angry “ajoifjaoifjeoaipjfoiejaoifjea“‘s.
As a boy, I remember I had a great love for reading, one that turned to a love of writing. I remember one day I pulled out a notebook and begin writing my first “novel”. I was probably in 4th grade, I think. I ended up writing an honorable 10-12 pages—front and back at that! I thought it was quite the accomplishment, and maybe it was. Still, I remember the shame I felt finding it few short years later and realizing that this grand and original adventure book was essentially a near word-for-word rip off of Jurassic Park 3.
So, yeah, maybe I’m a sucker for poetry and folk music. Maybe I love coffee shops and macbooks. Maybe I strictly only use pens when I write by hand. I may be angsty and broody, only finding solace in pouring my heart on the page (well…screen), but does fitting these stereotypes make me a writer? Or am I still a 4th grade boy plagiarizing stories about dinosaurs?
Thankfully, I think it’s the former. Not because I actually fit silly stereotypes, but because I truly love what I do. I shouldn’t be concerned with my complete creative lack as a child, I should admire the drive. What fuels a passion in the first place? I think that’s something I’m just now seeing. It’s my final year at school, and I realize that my major isn’t simply the “it’s easy for me to do, so I’ll choose that” copout it was when I first declared it. It’s become a part of me. An outlet for my corny heart. My Gryffindor common room, and the brightest spark of my alma mater. To put it simply, I’m a writer because I’m a writer and that’s just the color of my feathers.
Still, I could always be better. Senior year will provide a few new academic outlets to broaden my writing horizons, but I think I need to take the extra initiative. A football player can’t expect his ball throwing abilities to miraculously improve while he plays COD, can he? Nor can I, the writer, simply expect my eloquence and creativity to bloom during stagnation. I’ve begun reading again, which is an absolute dream, because it’s a fertilizer to a writer’s garden. Still, practice leads to something close to perfect, and I think it’s time to kick it up a notch. I’m going to buy a few of those writing exercise books, and I’m very excited about it. There’s nothing quite so lovely as the feeling that you wrote something worth reading. When people say things like “I like your blog” (thank you, Cayce), my heart melts. If I can go back and read a post on here and smile with satisfaction, I’ll feel like a champion for the rest of the day. That’s the real validation—not from others, but from myself.
That’s why I’m going to write, more often and, god willing, to a higher caliber. It’s who I am, and it’s what I do.
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