How Come I’m Not a Writer Yet?

I’m not sure when it happened, but at some stage during my later teen years I decided I wanted to be a writer. I think it was just one of those things I said because my mate Deano had said that he wanted to be a writer. I also wanted to play Cricket for Australia, or be an Architect.

I always seemed to be pretty good at writing. My teachers always gave me encouragement, my marks were always good, and the creative writing side of English was always enjoyable and easy.

That’s why I decided to become an Architect.

I honestly have no idea why I chose to study architecture. I think it was to make my parents happy or proud of me. I really have no idea. I managed to scrape into the University of my choice studying Architecture and I absolutely hated it.

So I dropped out to finally follow my dream of becoming a writer. I started working in a hamburger joint to save money so I could travel and learn about life. That’s got to be good for a writer, doesn’t it? I learned how to make a good hamburger, I learned that I wanted more from life than being able to make hamburgers, and I learned that when I go out drinking I can get rid of my entire wage in one night. I also knew I still wanted to be a writer, so I decided I needed some structure. I got accepted to study Communications Majoring in Journalism and Media Production, and three years later I graduated. That was in 1999. Journalism was going to be my back up plan. Now I could travel and fund my travels with my writing. First I had to earn a bit more money while working as a bouncer in Sydney’s notorious Bourbon and Beefsteak Bar — another great place to build up some life experience and get some more stories happening.

And it seems I have spent the next 15 years doing a lot of living, or pretending to live, or making mistakes, but not much time writing. Quite literally I’ve written nothing. Nothing that I’m proud of whatsoever.

I have written letters for my jobs, incident reports from the Bourbon, love letters, break up letters, miss you letters, and a shit load of whiney, whinging poetry, but I can’t call myself a writer.

A footballer plays football. When he’s not playing, he’s training. Kicking a ball around. Working on his fitness.

A musician plays music. When he’s not playing, he’s listening.

A writer should be writing.

For fifteen years I’ve been telling people I’m going to be a writer. In the meantime I’ve been a bouncer, minilab processor, insurance broker, boyfriend, fiance, husband, and an ex (too many times…)but I can never say I’ve even remotely attempted to be a writer.

That’s what this waffle is all about. Writing. It’s not perfect. Having just read what I’ve written, it’s not even good.

But it’s a start and that is all it is supposed to be.

Today is the 29th August 2014. I have joined the LIFT 30 day writing challenge (#500WED) that starts on the 1st September, and this is my first official day of being a writer and taking myself and my craft seriously.

I’ll try and make the next entry a bit less self absorbed. I promise.