A Few Years On

A couple years ago, shortly after my last post actually, I took some time to review my master outline with a volunteer editor. The results were less than exhilarating. The discussion we had raised many questions I was ill-prepared to answer and, honestly, left me reeling. I was actually wont to walk away from the experience feeling confirmation that I was a failure as a writer. I didn't get that, though. My editor never let me go there. 

But I did have to face some hard realities about where this story needed to go and why. I haven't lost faith in the pursuit of it, but I have lost faith in my own storytelling. For around seven years I fancied myself a writer. I enjoyed the support of my loved ones and I indulged in the luxury of limitless time to devote to the craft. Yet, I made very little of the experience. This was evidence of many other issues which needed attention. 

The end result was that I walked away from writing. It wasn't exactly an intentional decision. I bemoaned certain changes in my life even as I was relieved to have them. Where once I saw myself as a writer, I now do not even slightly.

I've gone back and read the manuscript I lauded so highly only a couple years ago. It's not very good. This was probably the most soul-crushing realization I needed to ingest. My verbal craftsmanship suffered greatly at the hands of my laziness. With so many reasons both legitimate and otherwise to avoid writing unless the feeling came upon me, I never could find my way past my own excuses to actually practice the discipline of it. This certainly showed in the final product. 

My self-esteem is both fragile and mostly nonexistent. Therefore, I appreciate the delicacy with which this reality has been handled by those who have had the dubious honor of reading my story. I wish I were a stronger person, because this process might have developed much more swiftly. Alas, I am most definitely a fallen and sinful human being, selfish at every turn, and mostly unwilling to work for the goals set before me. 

Since essentially giving up, I've stubbornly kept the site running. I've visited this blog from time to time without any intention of writing anything. Just a salve for my anima. I'm not in an identity crisis any more. I am most definitively a father with all the priorities and responsibilities which come along with it. I am comfortable filling this role. I am not a writer. I never was a writer. I was a tourist at best, filled with wonder and big dreams, but too much of a transient to impact my surroundings. 

Will I ever be a writer? I don't know. I suppose in this moment it seems unlikely. I enjoy the craft and the poetry. I enjoy the indulgence. I still love the story I've written in my head. But to find the time and motivation to make something of this seems beyond my capacity for excellence. I am too weak, too easily distracted and too busy. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I've always wondered if I were created to write the story I always believed I was created to write. And if I was, will I survive not writing it? Perhaps it was all just a dream just to help a confused child stumble his way into adulthood. If that's all it ever was, then, truly there is no need to share it.