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 | ©2020