To be perfectly honest (if there even is such a thing), I have
no idea what I am about to write. I know why I am writing, but I don’t know
what. I guess that’s a good place to start, however. I am writing because that
is a big part of who I am – I am a writer. Writers write and we don’t always have
a plan. Art is often like that. There are infinite inspirations, some stronger
than others, but inspiration is not always required – or, maybe more accurately,
it can manifest as part of the creative process. I don’t paint, but I would bet
that painters often stare at a blank canvas with no idea what they are about to
paint. How many musicians have sat down with their instruments just noodling
around when a song emerges? We are driven to create and I firmly believe that
everyone has a capacity for creative works.
But… not everyone trusts his or her instincts, believes he
or she is creative or, worse, that his or her talent is worthy of expression. I
fight that demon on a regular basis. That is another reason why I am writing. The internal battle that
tells me “I am not good enough” is an ongoing struggle, but I have been doing
this long enough to know that if I don’t fight it, I lose. I write, therefore I
am, yes, but when I write I also matter, even if no one ever reads this. I
means something to me.
It took a long time to embrace this particular creative
expression. I knew I could communicate using symbols arranged in some
specific order to create meaning long before I appreciated that ability. I
wished I had talent is some other art, I wished I could play the guitar or
piano or that I could draw or sculpt or otherwise create beauty that was visual
or aural or tactile. Maybe with sufficient training and practice I might have
been able to develop one, but it is clear my where natural talent, my propensity
to create, is: Words.
I am not the best writer I know of, not even close. There
are many whom I admire and who can write in ways I can’t. Poets and lyricists
are among them, but there are prose writers, too, living and dead, whom I admire as
icons, their writing lives on some lofty plane that I strive to reach. That,
too, is why I write. No amount of
talent or drive is enough, art, like anything else, improves with practice.
Since about maybe 15 years ago, I have had the drive that compels me to
improve. Raw talent alone, for me, will not win the “I’m not good enough”
battle, even though most of us are, objectively, good enough just as we are. It
a two-edged sword. One the one hand, there is an external measure of “quality”
that I have accepted as a defining part of who I am, and on the other hand, I produce
something by which that quality can be judged.
Beauty, it has been said, is in the eye of the beholder.
While that is certainly true to an extent, there is also a timeless, consistent
and universal essence of what is and is not beautiful. Quality, is another form
of beauty and quality, like beauty, is uniquely difficult to define. We know it
when we see it, hear it, touch it, smell it, taste it, read it... experience it in some way. Is quality, then,
also in the eye of the beholder? That is a damned good question, but I think,
intuitively, it exists outside of us. I strive for quality in my writing, I
want it to be beautiful and… I know it when I see it. Could this be better,
more “beautiful?” Undoubtedly. But it is good and it is certainly “good enough.”
One final thought on why
I write is one that I am hesitant to admit, even to myself. It is certainly not
the only reason and absolutely not the primary reason (that being a drive to
create), but it is a factor, nonetheless. While my primary target audience
consists of just myself, I do enjoy knowing that others have read and appreciated
my work as well. It comes from a deeper place than the appreciation being
represented by dollar signs. In the past I wrote for a living, but the
acknowledgement that my pay provided paled in significance to the real words
others expressed about mine. Whether the feedback had to do with the content,
the style or some combination of both, the external validation gave me ammunition
in the “I’m not good enough” war. Therefore, as much as I try to keep my ego in
check, I would be lying if I said what others thought did not matter.
Now, several hundred words later, what I would write about
is clear. It turns out that the “what” is the “why.” I did not know it going in
and it is not the first time I have reflected my thoughts on what I do in what
I do. My primary audience is satisfied. If that is all I get from this then that,
too, is enough. Peace.
