I am writing this from a quiet porch in the Michigan thumb. I am away from my children and my home where I can actually form some thoughts that aren’t being interrupted by two voices and a hundred responsibilities.
It’s been quite a while since I spilled the beans in my heart over this platform. It hasn’t been because I’ve lacked a voice, it’s been a matter of time and motivation. But my therapist would say those are convenient excuses for living for years feeling like my voice didn’t matter.
I’ve had stumbling blocks in my literary career over the summer months. I’m not going to divulge details but they are serious setbacks and blows to my ego.
So, I have to question if I have what it takes to be a novelist or a screenwriter. Do I have enough talent to press forward regardless of any prospect of success?
Why do I want to be a writer? Do I want to be successful and be able to rub it in the face of all the people that have hurt me over the years? Do I want to prove to the world that I do in fact matter and the only way to have solid proof of that is if I am successful?
Last night I sat around a campfire with numerous people who have no children, or whose children are long gone. As they chit chatted about banalities, my mind wandered to story ideas and characters. After some time, I took a walk by myself, swung on a swing set and imagined apparitions materializing from the woods meandering toward me hungrily.
I’m a writer. I’m an introvert. An intellectual. A storyteller. An imaginer. It’s what I do. So fuck the success. If I never get a literary agent, land a prestigious contract, sell a screenplay, or win an award – I’ll still need to keep writing.
My voice matters. And, that’s good enough, because I am here for a reason even if it’s the tiniest ripple in the ocean.