I am not a writer; although I do like to write. Really, I am more of a reader. I have always enjoyed reading, and it’s never mattered what. If I’m sitting down to breakfast with nothing more than a box of cereal in front of me, I will read that box in its entirety – the label on the front; the promotional stuff on the back; even the nutritional information and ingredients on the sides of the box. If someone is sitting across the table from me, I’ll read the paper from my side, even if it’s lying flat on the table (yes, I have no problem reading up-side-down). I’ll even rifle through a random technical manual if it is the only thing available. My favorite things to read are good fiction, biographies and science. Oh, and let’s not forget about Mad, the only magazine I read regularly.
Lately, I have found myself reading a lot about writing – techniques and how to come up with ideas for writing. I started taking an interest in that topic for a fairly obvious reason; I have this blog, and this blog is filled with my writings…but…I’m not a writer. When I started this blog, I had a good amount of poetry and prose I had written from years past that, to that point, I’d only let my closest friends and family read. Consequently, it was easy for me to post at least one or two entries every day in the beginning. I wasn’t writing nearly at the rate I was posting, so I knew it was a matter of time before I eventually ran the archives dry and would have to fill this blog with only newly written material. I had a decent backlog, so I wasn’t too worried about it; until recently, when the backlog ran out. For the first time that I can recall, I found myself feeling I needed to write about something, feeling that I should, that it was expected of me. So I started reading blogs about how to write and how to find inspiration. Some of them said you should make it a point to write something, anything, every day. I tried doing that for a little bit, but felt what I came up with most of the time was total crap. I also made an important (to me anyway) observation: by trying to write something every day, I was making writing a chore and consequently, I wasn’t enjoying writing that much anymore. So I stopped trying and started enjoying.
I find a rare kind of pleasure in writing. I like to play with words and phrases. I enjoy working up sometimes subtle rhyming and phrasing schemes, wondering if anybody will even notice they are there. I love using metaphors and ambiguities that can be interpreted a multitude of ways, where the reader could walk away with a very different interpretation than what I was thinking about when I was writing. I like to write concisely so there is no doubt as to the subject matter, but at the same time not have the end result all tied up with a neat little bow, with no questions left to be asked. Life is not like that. The world is not like that. The universe is most definitely not like that. Why should what I write be any different? I am after all, observing life from a very small world that is part of a wildly expansive universe that will always be impossible to fully understand.
No, I am not a writer. Nor do I ever want to be. I am a reader. I am an interpreter. I am a disseminator. But I am most certainly not a writer. While I can’t deny that I hope others will like what I have written, that will never be my driving motivation to write anything. I write for one reason only: self-enjoyment. I write as a form of release; a kind of therapy, and for the fun of it. I’m not going to feel guilty about not writing something every day or even every week. Maybe I will write two or three things in one day. Maybe I won’t write anything for weeks. It doesn’t matter. I will write when I feel like I need or want to and offer no apologies for any lapses that might occur between my posts. There’s a certain freedom with not being a writer. I like that freedom.
Copyright © 2015 Mr. Flying Pig