I write even if I have no right

If I cannot call myself a ‘writer’ if I have never been published or paid for what I write, it is a ‘hobby.’ I have yet to finish college, I am having no luck finding a job, but every day I get up, and I write. I have never tried to submit anything for publication, at first because I was so insecure about it that I feared rejection, now it’s simply because I don’t know what to do or where to start.

Writing began as a way for me to pour out my feelings, to figure things out, to vent, to write the things I wanted and wished I could say out loud, but didn’t. Writing for me has been my life preserver, I was and have always felt as though I am treading water or have been treading water, and just when I thought/think I am going down, I write something, anything, and I feel as though someone has just thrown out a ‘lifeline’. I’m still out in the vastness of the ocean, still being circled by sharks, still treading water, but I know I still have some hope of being ‘saved’…eventually. Therefore, I write, I write because I love it and even if no one gets it, understands it, and some believe it is a waste of time and energy, especially since I am not, or cannot make a living doing it. Still I write.

I’m not in denial, I am aware enough to know and firmly grasp the fact that I need a paying job to pay the bills and feed my kids. Which is why I returned to college and am praying for a job, but in the meantime, while I can, and while I have the chance, in fact, every chance I get, I write. I don’t have a degree, I have no formal training, I’m not educated, I have no expertise, I don’t ‘appeal to masses’, I don’t have my own show, I am not famous or know anyone who is. I don’t know if I’m ‘talented’, ‘gifted’, or ‘smart’, I don’t know if what I write is relevant or not or if it is or will ever be accepted as ‘art’ or if what I write is worthy of public consumption, or if it nothing more than an insight for my posterity to read and learn about me, long after I am gone. I only know I write every day, because I feel compelled to do so.

I love to write more than I love to read, and that is saying a lot, because I love to read. I love to learn, I love researching things, I love studying things, learning about things, people, cultures, ides, statistics, history, facts, I guess in a sense I am the ‘perpetual’ student. I know a lot about nothing, even less about some things, and more about some things I wish I never knew at all.

I know there are ‘authors’ out there that have books published that cannot even spell, let alone string a few coherent sentences together, who have no ‘formal’ educations, that before they became ‘famous’ for being ‘infamous’, probably never even read a book, much less own one, yet, have published a book. I also know there are legitimate authors with incredible talent, that write, and they never had any formal training or education, just raw talent, and have managed to make a good living doing what they love…writing. I also know many people that with a lot of hard work, dedication, and heart, went to school to hone their ‘craft’, improve upon their skills/tools, and master the ability to write, in an effort to have their work published. Some have found success in the field and are now published authors, not all of them are ‘rich’, wealthy, famous, or will ever make, have ever made, New York’s top selling book list, yet still, they write.

I am not sure what any of this, or if any of this, pertains to or says about me, or my future, or of my dream of becoming a paid writer someday. It may always only be a ‘hobby’ or perhaps it is nothing more than a journal of my life and my experiences of my life here on earth. It may never be anything more than just random thoughts, feelings, ideas, and opinions, comments, written merely for my own consumption and for my own attempt at maintaining some semblance of sanity for me, as it pertains to my life and my experiences. I only know I write. I write because when you love something, anything, as much as I love to write, why would you not do it?

I am not as ‘learned’ as some, I may lack intelligence in many fields, on many subjects, about many things, and I may never know what it is or will take to do what it takes or even if I have what it takes to become a ‘writer’, an author or ‘artist.’ I only know I write and I write, and I continue to write. Writing is as much a part of who I am as what I write about, because everything I write about is about me and my life, and my experiences, as to whether that is of any interest to anyone or not seems to be the only real question. Because regardless of whether or not I am or will ever be recognized or published and or make a living at it or doing it, I will continue to do it, because I love it. I have read that writing for some is like oxygen. If writing is like oxygen than my attempts at writing could alone be the cause or reasoning for the hole in ozone, my words are like the layers of smog that blanket Bakersfield leaving one gasping for air. Like a severely asthmatic child-I keep reaching, searching for my inhaler-the longer I go without oxygen, the more disoriented, convoluted, deluded, I become. Still, I write. I write to keep my head above water, to allow me to continue to keep treading the waters and waves that continue to threaten to engulf me, or wash me further out to sea…I write that I might live to write/fight another day.