Why I('ll) Write

Climbing Mt. Everest is hard. Understanding quantum physics is harder. Fathoming the world's fascination with Michael Jackson is damn near impossible.

But these, for me, seem like child's play in comparison to writing fiction. I had rather negotiate peace settlements between Palestinians and Israelis than hold myself hostage to free range writing (and yes, I'm knowingly alluding to chickens ... I'm not afraid to admit my fears. It makes me manly, at least that's what I tell myself).

I am not shackled with too many ideas as so many prospective writers often claim. Instead, I am weighed down by an oppressively perpetual blank page. Characters I create in my mind are abstract shooting stars that streak across my consciousness, fading away with less than a whimper. My mind doesn't stick around long enough to hear their plea for creation, if there really is such a thing.

Despite my pessimism, I know I have not given writing fiction a fair shake. The boundlessness of the terrain terrifies me. Knowing that I will inevitably reveal myself and my feelings does little to make the prospect any more appealing. Just as frightening is the idea (knowledge?) of being found out by all to be without talent, originality, voice, coherency relevance or grammatical coherence.

Take your pick.

Writing is too painful for me to simply pass off as a pastime. I dabble with poetry from time to time, mostly when I have an urge to express. Otherwise, I obsess over the hobgoblin of passing days and years, knowing that I believe myself capable of writing well, but too afraid to act on this belief.

I have been married one year and a month. I have a wife and step-son. I went from perpetually alone to perpetually accompanied in what seemed the blink of an eye. I have come to realize that my fears are not as important as my obligation to my family - to realize my full potential. I also realize that I have been cheating myself by ignoring a passion that has pulled strenuously on my mind and soul since my college days. Ignoring the deep desire to write is no longer an option. I owe my family, and most importantly, I owe myself, the attempt to write as I have long dreamed.

Starting today, every day I am capable of writing, I will do so. Only will the worst of the chronic headaches prohibit me from trying to accomplish what I feel in my heart I am meant to do, no matter how much it pains me.

I have no good answer as to how I will balance willpower with relaxation, stubbornness with joy. I suppose the answer to both of these paradoxes is sheer will. I want it to happen, so I will make it happen. Self-help in action ... now we'll see how helpful my self can be. I may fall flat on my face in an embarrassingly foppish way, but so be it. I can say with certainty that I have done and will do worse.

For three years I satisfied my desire for writing by working for a newspaper. I wrote articles on subjects ranging from government upheaval and murder trials to Possum Queens and county fair cookie baking champions. Most liberating was my weekly column, wherein I was given free reign to write on any subject matter that pleased me. The constant writing kept the creative juices flowing enough that I wrote a few short stories and poems that were published in a local writers' journal. The only requirement for publication was submittal and semi-regular attendance to the local writers' group meetings.

I do not have a plan of balance when it comes to writing. For now, I will set aside the time each night to write. I will write from the heart as clearly and fluidly as possible. These are my baby steps. Hopefully they will develop into paces and perhaps strides.

And, my god, may it all become easier.