Just finished my last final...stinkin final. I think I bombed it. Hope I smashed it. Done with my bracketology. I set it up. Twin A looked at it and laughed and redid it. He said, "pay attention mom, BYU big man is gone cause he had sex with his girlfriend, they not winning unless Jimmer is Jesus"...ummm okay, you do it then son. So he did. I stilled titled it "Girls Know Basketball"...I'mma win too.
On to my write:
Supposedly, I am a writer.
At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. I’M A WRITER!”
The title of “writer” is one that haunts me more than I embrace it. When I tell people (myself included) that I’m a writer, I usually mean it by calling, not by profession. CEO of Ward Tribe International. Even as I pursue this degree, I wonder if being a full-blown professional writer would ever be my future. Not because I doubt my abilities, but because I rather enjoy the balance that comes with a structured job and writing as a hobby.
I talk about writing a lot. I can’t say I’ve actively studied the craft since tenth grade creative writing class. I fall into and out of the habit of daily writing practice. The truth is, I don’t write to become a better writer. I write to purge and make sense of my scrambled thoughts and intense emotions. It is through my fingers that I find logic and peace.
So here I stand, in the middle of scholarship applications, realizing that I’ve got a lot to learn. I’ve started reading creative writing blogs and I’m floored by the amazing things some of the wordsmiths do with language. The pages of my “words” notebook (You know, the one that all writers should use to record and remember new words they come across) fill up weekly and are a wake up call to how limited my writing vernacular can be. Now, I’m more of leisurely reader, skimming works for emotional impact. I’m a student of the written word it intrigues me in the most unusual way.
Sure I’ve been spilling words onto the internet for world wide consumption few years. When my emotional cup runneth over, I can empty here almost effortlessly. The process of taking my catharses, editing them and rewriting them for purposes of review, however, is new to me. As I pass along writing samples from this blog to be critiqued by trusted writer pals, I’m confronted with the thoughts: What will they say? What if I can’t digest their remarks? Am I even any good at this thing at all? I’m humbled, terrified and intrigued all at once.
Is this how it feels to take those first wobbly steps toward the future?