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 to 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?) Yeah. I guess I’m a writer. Oh, and I write about you sometimes.


tara caribou | ©️2019

79 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 recent 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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      1. Interestingly there is a mental hospital near my house called Tara. My first girlfriend ended up in there (quite a while after we broke up). She initially got the padded room and everything. I used to go visit and we’d make out. Anyways, one night she tried to escape but got tangled up in the barbed-wire on the wall.

        Eventually she got better. Learnt sign language and starred in a soap opera for deaf people.

        I think she’s dead now though.

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  2. We are all, at any given moment, something, nothing and everything. As writers all we can hope is that, sometimes, our words touch or awaken a spark in others. I think too that we are collectors and the things that we find we merely try to reassemble in order to make sense of them. So, in every way, you are a writer (and an artist).

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  3. I love your writing and, yeah, writers are weird. One of the funniest, truest things I’ve ever read is, “You know you’re a writer when something terrible happens to you and your first thought is how to write about it.”
    Writers live many lives and speak in many voices–you’re not really a shadow in the background but a mirror offering a unique, sometimes warped, perspective on the world. And it’s why I enjoy your poetry so much: it’s your perspective.
    Recently I started thinking about the saying attributed to C.S. Lewis that “we read to know we are not alone”. And for the first time I found myself disagreeing, sort of. I don’t read to find people like me. I read to know what it’s like to be someone completely different.
    Writing, on the other hand, and as you’ve highlighted here, is a way of connecting with others.

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    1. Oh totally. There have been times when I look at something (or nothing) and think, I know this is going to be a poem or a story somewhere along the way.

      I read to escape, to learn, to see things from another perspective… because I love reading. I write to escape as well, to learn about myself, and to share that (like CS Lewis said about reading) we aren’t alone in our feelings and goings-on. Because the art is within me and I need to get it on the page.

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    1. Awww thanks Nathan. I sometimes write this way… maybe I’ll do a few more here and there. I had three scheduled for this week. So, one more for sure on the way. I’m so glad this spoke to you, friend.

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  4. When you don’t have a concept of time I think it means your in love, and if not with someone in particular, then just the idea of being in love. If you feel like you can just lay in bed and make love all day, then start running. You need more physical activity. You’re writing will get better to. Lol, it sounds funny but I went through that. Every day felt like they were blending into each other. I didn’t know if it was Monday sunday or friday.

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  5. I love this post. Actually read it a few times 🙂 One of my favorite song lyrics goes something like “I don’t know what you’ve taken me for- a muse, a musician, some kind of magician. But I’m just using all the same words that I stole from some overheard conversations.”
    I think that does a pretty good job of summing up a writer (at least me anyway). We observe the world around us, take inspiration from it, and turn it into stories and poems. Thanks for the post and keep doing what you’re doing.

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