“I always expect the best when I sit down to write.

Ideas formed in my head, I think I can snap them out exactly

And fully... Then things get blurry, the points don’t fit and the message

Isn’t clear. What was the message again?

If a piece of writing is something I have to re-work, re-position,

Restructure and re-do like a clay dough house,

Then I really don’t want it.

If I have to obscure a clear message through symbolisms and characters’ actions,

That’s just disheartening and tedious.

If I end up writing nothing of importance, then I discard it like so many of the

Modern-day, go-nowhere, soap-opera ‘page-turners’ I’ve come to dislike so much.

Does that make sense?”

Oh yes, I am a ‘Writer’, I think haughtily of myself,

Feeling more guilt than truth.

“Old friends ask if I’m still writing.

What have I written as of late? Surely I must be much more prolific and much more promising since I wrote my first good story,

The one that was so meaningful-- doused in symbolisms, imagery and vagueness like so many good works should apparently be.

I keep trying now, but the things I have to say have already been said.

The most important idea I could ever believe in to write about has been written well over by many before me, with just as much or more articulation as I could ever hope to have.

Plus, writing for posterity or fame just seems like a false dream: no one understands the things in your head quite like you yourself do. And if you do become famous? Your work will be torn apart, re-hashed, picked over, used hastily in school book reports with inaccurate assumptions, disregarded, honored by some, and over time likely ignored by many. In this life, the least you can do with your work is gain a little fleeting respect and a few true friends who understand”—

 

            “Did you forget how much faith I have in you?”

 

I’m stopped cold. No, I didn’t forget. How could I forget? At the first step of success, their encouraging words were carved into my brain, my gratefulness and pride furnished into part of a new identity I could work and live in; a ‘Writer’. But there was also so much meaning even beyond the title.

I wonder so often now, if they had ever had the doubts about it that I have. Have they been here before, where I am?

Of course, maybe they understand too well, and beat me to the punch. Their words—like gospel, taunt, challenge and comfort—meet me at every turn and do not blink; waiting for my response. And here it comes again in my mind—in their voice, it plays over to face me:

            “Never stop writing.”