Just Write

Just say it, the voice in your head begs you, tired of holding the burden of your dreams inside. You hated these things. To them, it was just small talk, and the question was one that could be answered so simply. What are your professional and career goals? At this age, everyone had some kind of plan of action. You do have a plan, you remind yourself. You couldn’t say it aloud, though. Then, you would be lying. You were not a writer. You were not creative enough for that, not eloquent enough, not dedicated enough. You were not enough. You were never going to say it, to be it. When they asked the question you always found better things to say instead; you were going to be a teacher, a lawyer, or a therapist, maybe. People would be much more receptive if you gave them a practical answer. Then, you wouldn’t have to force yourself to laugh along with them when they told you how broke you would be after college. A waste of a degree, they would say. You’d pretend not to be hurt. 

  Or maybe it would be worse. Maybe they would take you seriously. Maybe they’d ask you what you like to write about, or even ask to read some of your work. Then, what would you do? Would you tell them about the magical creatures and lands that danced in your head, or would you try to think of something more profound, more literary? Surely, they wouldn't be interested in hearing about the steamy, enemies-to-lovers romance story that you have been working on. Would you backtrack, saying that it's more of a hobby than a career aspiration? You weren’t even comfortable telling your closest friends; how could you market your work to a world full of critics?

 So, you don’t say it. You don’t show it. You don’t speak into existence the one thing that you feel is the reason for your existence. You know it will hurt too much to fail at this, at something so intertwined with your identity. Contemplating the “what if’s” was safer. Letting your dreams stay dreams was the right thing to do, even if your heart ached at the thought of giving up.

  You eventually stop writing. You focus on distracting yourself with more important things. You’re a college student, and God knows you know how to keep yourself busy. You had spent way too long with your head in the clouds being much too concerned with characters and places that didn’t even exist. Sports, friends, classes; that was what was supposed to occupy your mind. So, you abandon your aspirations. That ache in your heart grows, though. You wonder if everyone else feels it too; the stories racing through their minds as they try to sleep, the restlessness as they look up at the stars and beg for answers. You go for another late-night drive, rolling down your windows and listening to sad melodies that transport you to places far grander than behind the wheel of your car. You felt like you were mourning the loss of your soul. You think to yourself, do real artists feel this pain when they aren’t creating? When a painter sees a colorful sunset, for instance, does the need to recreate the beauty they’ve experienced overwhelm them to the point of pain? Each day you were losing something, running from something. Some part of you that possessed the spirit of your childhood begged for you to come back. 

  Then, one day, you decide to read that book again. You know which one. The one that makes you want to cry and scream and laugh all at once. The one that tugs at that thread of human emotion that seems to connect us all. The one that makes you immediately resent reality for forcing you to lock up your creativity and throw away the key. You come to the reluctant realization that one day you’re going to have to stop running. You’ll have to allow yourself to dream again. You’ll have to stop shaping your life to please the expectations of others. Your expectations for yourself are much too real for you to ignore. 

            But where do you even begin? 

   You get up from where you are sitting and walk into your bathroom. Gripping the sides of your sink so hard that your knuckles turn white, you dare to look at your reflection in the mirror. Just say it, you silently remind yourself. You knew you'd regret it if you didn't. Breathe in. Pause. Breathe out. 

“I am a writer,” you say, and your voice doesn’t tremble. No one is there but you; however, you are the only one that really needs to hear it. As if you had recited some sort of magic spell, the tightness in your chest releases, and you collapse into a sob. Finally, you let the tears flow out of you. You cry for the fear that has held you captive, for the expectations that others have placed on you, and for your own refusal to believe in the ability that you possess. When it’s all over you’re curled in a ball on your bathroom floor. You can’t even muster the energy to form another sniffle, yet, you feel lighter, happier. There is a peace in your heart that replaces the aching. This is your truth. You have spoken it. Your identity will not change due to external factors; it comes from within. 

            You stop wondering if people will look down on you, and you stop comparing yourself to writers that you will never be. For the first time in your life, you have reconciled who you want to be and who you are. There is nothing holding you back. So, when you sit down with that cup of tea and open your computer you no longer feel like an imposter. You are no longer imitating the act of writing. You are who you say you are, and you do what you say you do. You write.