Am I a Writer?

About twenty years ago, as I stood outside my office at Portland State University, it struck me in an instant that my life had just changed. A surge of energy rose through me, emptying me of any desires that had driven my long career. All professional ambitions had vanished. Seemingly snatched away. I was euphoric in knowing that I was done with what I had determined to do almost forty years earlier. My book of life suddenly had shifted from volume I to volume II. It was much more than turning a page or moving on to the next chapter. There was a clean break between what had been and what would be. After a career as an elementary teacher, principal, and administrator of professional development workshops for schoolteachers, it seemed as if the muse of things to come had reappeared.

I resigned my position at PSU and settled into the one thing that held over from volume I to volume II. The volumes are connected by a desire to write. I am compelled by the muse to put words to paper. To write or not to write is not the question. I must write.

The muse of things to come pushes me forward. Long ago she gave me writing as an itch to be scratched, and this cliche brings us to the beginning. When I was a youngster, I wrote a long story about outlaw gangs in the old West. It was awful. Quality was not the point. It was a story that had to be told. It was too big for a boy to hold inside after Saturday afternoon doses of B-westerns at the local movie house. I scribbled it out on sheets of typing paper. Dad was my only reader. He was kind enough to be supportive. But I hid it away afterward. Maybe too far away because I have no idea what became of that scribbled manuscript. All I have left is the thrill of having put the story to paper.

A few years later, I banged out a newspaper once a week on the old Underwood kept on a small desk in our 50s-era basement rec room. I typed it in columns like a real newspaper. It had news, sports, and a very mini-size crossword puzzle. The entire print edition was contained on two or three 8”x11” size sheets and sold for a penny. This time, both parents were readers. Mom did the crossword. They devoured, I’m sure, all six editions, and I was six cents richer for the effort. I liked the newspaper idea enough to eventually take eighth-grade journalism classes.

In my early 20s, I signed up for the Famous Writers School. Their ads offered hope to a young man with the writer’s itch. I must say, the experience was fruitful, although the company had several public relations problems due to questionable business practices. But that is neither here nor there. For two years they provided writing assignments and useful critiques. In the end, a short story was produced, which might still be in a storage box. I zapped it off to a magazine. It snapped right back like it was attached to a rubber band. Nevertheless, writing and publishing seemed like two different things. Publishing opportunities were presented by the school but never promised. After 50-some years, I am still grateful for their guidance. The desire to write that caused me to pay good money to a correspondence school still runs deep.

Writing was paramount in my academic studies and career. It was a tool to churn out college papers, essays, and my dissertation. At work, there were research reports, memos, newsletters, articles for school publications, etc. You get the drift. Writing became part of the job. Mid-career I took a break for a year, with the excuse that I was going to write. That never happened. Therein lies the rub for us would-be writers. Wannabes like me have unfulfilled aspirations for lack of applying ourselves to the hard work required. Writing, like any occupation, takes disciplined effort to succeed. I have never applied the discipline needed to be a professional/published writer. My disciplined efforts went into the field of education.

Now I write as a hobbyist. It scratches the itch and gives me pleasure without the pressures of having to publish. But no matter how much I write, I don’t like saying I am a writer. It seems to me that true writers make it their life’s work. I dabble in it. Writers have audiences. I write for my own delight. Writers publish. My raw creations go into a drawer. If by chance someone is interested, I will share. But mostly not. My delights are not everyone’s.

But retirement offers new writing opportunities. Maybe late in life is when we dare to do what we love. I am reminded of a fellow I knew in a men’s group. There were eight of us who met every two weeks over breakfast to discuss spiritual and religious matters. Most of the other men were clergy or sons of clergy. One was a medical doctor turned professor who early in life wanted to be an artist. After a distinguished career in medicine and teaching, he returned to his first passion. His paintings are well received in various shows. Friends greet him as artist Bob. His is a common story of retiring fruitfully by returning to an earlier dream after a long, rewarding career. My early and endless dream has been to write down my heartfelt passions in lucid ways for publication, much like artist Bob creates his paintings for display in various shows and galleries. There is a certain satisfaction in having others value your work.

I love ideas, especially those that take us beyond ourselves, but my efforts to write about them fall far, far short of those by prominent intellectuals and established authors. An editor might help, or better yet a writing coach. Meanwhile, I write. Mostly to answer the questions I have about life. My daily musings reflect spiritual matters taken from my morning contemplations. At best I listen to a messenger within me who has things to say. I turn my ear to its wisdom as a way of finding words to put on paper. I hear best when I am empty and still, and not trying to think in my own way. I study, contemplate, and listen. What wants to be said just seems to be there, but I am beginning to think the messenger is no better a writer than I am. It mostly uses incoherent phrasing, but I like its ideas.

Am I a writer? That is the question. Recently, someone introduced me as a writer to her friend. I was taken aback because I have long felt that calling myself a writer is pretending to be something I am not. What if someone asked to read a piece I had written, and it was not worth reading? Or worse yet, I had nothing to show. I would feel like a fraud. Writers speak to an audience. I have no audience. I speak to myself. Is that a copout for not applying the discipline it takes to write to the interests of readers? Probably, but I do not care to admit it. One excuse is that in retirement I am financially free to write without publishing. Another is that my writing does not require an audience since it reflects personal contemplations. But when I flip the coin to the other side I am without the satisfaction of readership. Of knowing that someone has touched upon my reflections. I must admit that writers and readers are meant for each other. I am fooling myself into thinking that I am okay without readers when I am not.

It was jolting to be introduced as a writer. It put me face to face with the fact that people are reading what I write. The woman who introduced me had read somewhere a piece that I had written. She saw me as a writer. I was rocked a bit by her introduction, but there it was. A person does not need to sell $30 books or have essays in The Atlantic to be a writer with an audience. Readership is comprised of both casual and avid readers. What they read varies widely. My writings are available publicly and seemingly being read. Right now, you are among my readers, and I appreciate that.

So yes, I am a writer. Let’s just put it out there and live with it. How can I not be a writer when I write every day? I commit thoughts to paper, have had two articles printed in a local publication, post regularly to my blog (theroomwithin.blog), submit essays to an online site (upperleftedge.com), and had two of my pieces selected for an annual writers event sponsored by the local library. A person does not have to be a professional, published author to be a writer. Writers come in variations of proficiency and productivity. Among writers are professional authors, casual hobbyists, and the myriad varieties in between. I am one of them. I put words to paper daily and love it.

My father was my first reader. You are now my audience. Dad was kind enough to be supportive of a young boy who had an itch. I hope that you can do the same for the older man that I am now. The itch must be scratched. I write because I must, and your readership gratifies me. Together we can revel in the written word. We are all writers and readers. To express our imaginations with words is the mark of our humanity.