Today I Realized That I’m A Writer

It dawned on me today that I am a writer. I have always ALWAYS viewed myself as an artist. Since I was a little kid able to actually think of myself as ‘something’, I’ve been an artist. One who is never quite happy with her art because the OCD surfaces: lines got be formed just right, the correct thickness, in the right way, the clay needs to be molded just so, the paint… well you get the idea.

But today I realized, hey, I’m a writer. I mean, I write every single day. So that means I’m a writer, correct? Maybe I’m just an artist who writes? I think of myself as a storyteller who sometimes writes poetry. I don’t know. I’m rarely happy with my poetry either. So I ask people to write with me in hopes their brilliance will rub off on me.

I like that. Letting others rub on me. Scuff off bits of me and push them in a pile off to the side. Cover over with someone else. Someone better. I want to be better. More. I want to make a difference. Touch lives. Experience love of all types. So I write. I look at the world around me and write. I explore my thoughts and emotions and write. I cling to any little tiny shard of good and I write. Hoping always to connect, make an impact, draw like-minded souls together.

I’m a writer. And writers are weird, aren’t we? Reality is a little different for us. We speak in parables and metaphors and from different angles and we never *quite* mean what we say, do we? We write works that are like those drawings of the eyes that ever follow you, no matter where you stand in the room. I read your poetry today (or was it yesterday? I’m terrible when it comes to time: I have no concept of it at all….) and I placed myself in there, as if you were writing about me. Me! Who the fuck am I???? I’m nobody.

Oh, I’m somebody sometimes. Like when I’m in the checkout lane and I’m handing the clerk cash for the guy ahead of me who didn’t have enough himself. Or when the server brings out my food and I thank her. Or when I smile at the little kid who looks like she needs a friendly smile. Or when I answer your email. For a moment, a tiny blip in time, I’m a person of substance, sure, before I fade back into unimportant obscurity.

Who the fuck am I, then? I guess I’m some pseudo-nameless fraud who tries to write poetry and stories and actually make a difference in this world and who wishes that just once, just this once you would write about me too. (Don’t worry, though, I know you won’t. Why would you? I’m just some obscure lonely woman in Alaska.) Yeah. I guess I’m a writer. Oh, and I write about you sometimes.


tara caribou | ©️2018

38 thoughts on “Today I Realized That I’m A Writer

    1. I think that the not-knowing part helps in reading, doesn’t it? In a way, you as the reader can take some of those words and make them your own… much as I alluded to here. How many times I have read the words of writers and longed to have them written for/about me. Oh, my heart would soar! There was this one time when I told a poet that I wished once that what he wrote was about me. He said: I always write for myself. And I understood completely what he was saying but my point was (as I am a self-professed doomed romantic) that I *wish* someone would write to/about me. I mean, how awesome would That be??! But again, I also know we all write for different reasons. Geez. I write about “someone” fairly frequently myself but then, I also write about fantasy a lot too. Soooo yeah… I get it. Thanks for reading and commenting, it means so very much to me.

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    1. hhhmmm… welllll, I’m not sure there’s anyone not ‘worthy’ of my thoughts… but then again, maybe I do see your point. I think, like you said, I’ll keep doing it my way and hope I can impact a few lives as I go.

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  1. The only sad thing is that it’s sooo damn hard to make real money from writing…we always hungry…not tummy hungry (even though the growling, howling worms tell a different story) but hungry to achieve that level of respect and recognition for your weird genius, your creativity and above all your thoughts and feelings…

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    1. I understand what you are saying but many real writers don’t “need to make money”. Not that we don’t need money to survive but that we write whether we make a dime from it or not. I believe real writers will write whether or not they have an audience and whether or not they make money. Look back through history beyond the last one hundred years (read: modern years) and you will see the truth of it. It is only in these last thirty years that everyone seems to think that every hobby and every dream should be paid for monetarily. That’s just not reality. Many artists are not recognized except posthumously. Still they created art. Thanks for the discussion.

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