I Am A Writer…

I am a writer. I am an entertainer, but for the heck of it, I will stick with just writer.

Do any of you feel like you want to be big, but you don’t know what you are going to write? Better yet, you don’t know what you’re even writing. That’s exactly what I feel at the moment.

I am making up words as I go. I am trying to paint this white canvas on Medium, with my oh-so-ordinary words. Trying to pour out the bottled up emotions as I feel ‘em.

I am ambitious, virtuous. Okay not virtuous, but that just came with the flow.

I am the kid who desires greatness. The kid who wants to entertain. The kid who wants to be a millionaire writing. No! a gazillionaire. And that was the moment when I blew a gush of air out of my nose.

I don’t have the writing skills. I can’t even pick out a genre. I am so unsure, which of course, I do not like to admit. Let’s just stick with skeptical. Let’s just say I am open to opportunities and possibilities.

Today is the day when my unclarity about the future doesn’t bother me. This is the day when I don’t let myself feel down because of my lack of skills, my writing skills.

I want to write novels.

I want to write thousands of pages about a protagonist completely unfamiliar to me, and call it mine. I want to have the library they show on “National Treasure” in my basement. I want to be a great writer. Honestly, I don’t even care about being the greatest, a writer would do.

But, oh! I am so lazy! or am I? Half the time I am not even sure how to write the words on my mind. I can type them, yeah sure. But, do I call it a poem? An article? Or a story? Perhaps, a rant? How will I ever call those words, I never wrote, anything?

How will I scream through my words and let that one person seven seas away relate?

They always said you have to have a plan? Well, I don’t. At 22, I am lost. I kick myself for it. Why can’t I just sit in front of my laptop and write for myself, at least? This everyday story drags on and on. And, my wish to call myself a writer prolongs furthermore.

It’s the genre part that’s the most confusing. Mainly because I have no significant knowledge of identifying any piece of writing as this or that. I struggle. Oh! I can’t even begin to explain my struggle. One minute I am trying to rant my words into a poem, and next thing I know I have written a page and half of gibberish, on the way to making a new Berlin wall.

Do successful people edit their own words, or do they hire someone to even type them as they think of it. Yes, telepathy would be nice.

I have a writer’s identity crisis.

That’s what I like to call the failure of not being able to identify with any form of writing, not being able to specify what I am writing. Am I a poet? A story teller? An essayist? A blogger? Okay, fine, I’m a content writer, and a blogger. At least that’s the title my office lets me hang by my neck.

Deep down, I am not any of it. I am just a kid, who’s over ambitious in the world’s eyes. I am just a kid who dreams of killing every single character in a book. But, when will I even begin my first book, not a fucking clue. Not in this life time, is what the procrastinator inside me often yells. But, why not? It’s not that hard. So what if I can’t get it published, I gotta write it at least.

I am just a kid, who wants to be a writer. I am just a kid who dreams of being a writer. I am just a kid who wants to travel the world on Tuesday to “research” for my new book. I am just a kid who wants to see the world.

But today is different. This is the day when I am not “just” a kid. I am writing. I have come so far, haven’t I? Even though if it’s only few hundred words. I wrote.

And I will write again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after.

I will write until my protagonist finds his lover. I will write until my protagonist is 95, and then I will make up a new one. Maybe the new one will die a gruesome death at the hands of his lover.

This is the day when I decide to never give up on my dreams. This is the day I can envision myself narrating my own book in a room full of curious eyes. Come tomorrow, I might just go back to being a lazy ol’ kid. But at this moment, at 12:28 am, I am not that kid. I am a writer.

I don’t care if I seem crazy, insane even. My mind’s faster than my fingers. Hundred voices narrating inside me and ten fingers to type ’em, which I tell you, and most of you can relate, is not easy. But, I am prepared to write, and keep on writing.

I keep on writing to reach that one milestone. Above money, above fame, above the definition of success. Higher than the caption of tough act to follow.

I write for the day when I’ll look back and say, I was that kid.

I don’t know how many of you can relate with this piece. But, if you can, do press that recommend button. It would mean so much to me.