As I sit here, staring at this blank sheet of paper, (while I should be studying mind you) I can’t hep but feel the need to write something down. Something. Anything! It is like the page is calling out to me, screaming my name. “Parker, write something! You’re a writer for goodness sake!” But what on earth do I write about. That always seems to be my problem. I feel compelled to write something, then I take the time to actually sit down and do it and I can’t even imagine where to begin.
Maybe it’s because my brain is always filled with a Bazillion ideas! Or maybe it’s because I’m not a good writer..(we will find out in due time). Don’t you think its funny that I want to be a writer but I never write anything down…ever? Why do I feel so drawn to actually be a writer anyways? Because of the paper I wrote when I was 12 in Miss Walkers class. (She said I had great potential). Is it because I love to look at a blank sheet of paper and let loose and allow ideas to flow out to the point where when I put my pencil down, it miraculously makes sense…Sometimes.
The list of questions are endless. The list of answers however… Nonexistent.
I would love for someone to come up to me and just slap me right in the face and say, “Parker, just give up. You suck. You will never be successful at this”. Maybe then I would at least feel some sense of…comfort.(If that is even the right word). At least then I would know to move on with my life. Switch majors at this incredibly overpriced university, and try something else. Then maybe this overwhelming doubt that hovers over me every day will finally just up and go away.
Deep down though. I want to be a writer. I have to be. Something about it just captures me. Maybe its the interviews? The gathering of information. Going in with nothing and coming away with a vision. Maybe its the whole process. Sitting down with these questions and answers and a blank sheet in front of you. The only way i can think of to describe is that it must be how artist feel. With all of their oil paints ready, their brushes all out and ready to be picked by their master. The canvas begging to be used. The way the artist gently dips the brush into the red paint and delicately strokes the canvas until the finished product is so amazing, so genuine and creative that the artist can’t do anything but smile.
Ya, maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s the due dates? Ohhh the due dates! How i Loathe and Love them in the very same breath. The pressure you feel when your under the gun in the closing hours in indescribable. If you are lucky enough to actually pull it off and finish in time, the sense of accomplishment is unmatched by any other.
So i guess the question still lingers. Why do I want to be a writer?
I guess the only answer I have isn’t really all that complicated. It’s actually quite simple.
I write… because I love it.
If you took time to read this, thank you.
Until next time,
Parker
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