My wife has ‘discovered’ she is a writer, probably fairer to say she has admitted she is a writer. This left me wondering if I’m a writer as well?
I consider myself a creative person; I believe I have an artist’s soul. I’ve found many ways to express myself over the years. I tried oil painting many years ago and enjoyed it although being a perfectionist I found I wanted to paint every single pine needle on my trees. Watching someone smash the brush on the canvas to ‘create’ trees seemed inappropriate to me. Trees aren’t random; they have incredible structure to the observing eye. Randomly smashing a brush felt like a cheap imitation.
Of course I may have missed the whole meaning here, the painting should be about what the viewer see’s in it, the emotions it evokes, the memories it stirs. It shouldn’t be an ‘exact copy’ of nature even if the anal retentive little F in me wants to make it that way.
So, I guess we can rule out painter.
I discovered computer programming at an early age and taught myself. I’ve made my living over the years programming computers or with the million other activities that make them useful and a curse. In programming there are times when beauty can truly be expressed, when the eloquence of the logic, the flow of the program, the way it is expressed has a kind of beauty. Programming, deep intuitive graceful programming can be truly beautiful to the observer conversant in the language and techniques expressed in the code. It was only recently that I looked at my 30 years behind the keyboard expressing logic to a machine as an expression of my need to write.
Humm… if programming is writing then perhaps I am a writer?
In the mathematics of chaos I find a beauty that for me feels the same as when I look at a lush green forest. I feel the face of God in the math and in the forest. Perhaps that is what I should try to paint. As I’ve come to understand chaos theory I’ve come to see it everywhere in nature. Fibonacci series, events that are random yet bounded, contained in a phase space. It brings a sense of beauty to me that is hard to describe, I don’t have the words for what I sense, what I feel as I see the world through these chaos inspired eyes.
Humm… is curiosity, is learning to see the world in new ways traits of a writer?
I also play a couple musical instruments, not well but I do play them. Having people hear one of my simple original compositions and expressing that they like it is a real rush. I’ve known for years I needed to express myself in music even if I’m not truly a musician.
Humm….I’ve created music, effectively I’ve written it, does this make me a writer?
I’ve drawn on and off my entire life, usually pencil on paper. I was encouraged to pursue a career in art back in school but instead followed my interest in technology. Pencil on paper gives me an opportunity to express the anal retentive little F in me again as I often draw three dimensional objects then light the scene with shadow. Geeky, yes, even I admit this.
Humm….I draw, perhaps I’m an artist?
I build things with my hands, from simple wood working to simple machines. I design electronic circuits and bring them to life, often with a small computer embedded to give it more life, more interactivity. I’ve come to understand this is yet another form of expression.
Humm.…I build things, perhaps I’m an engineer?
I’ve written for myself most of my adult life, typically a few paragraphs that should have been kept in a journal but weren’t and have been lost. The first warm blue day of spring typically results in my writing that spring is here, I find I need to express my excitement about it. I’d never realized this was ‘writing’ until recently.
So, seeing my wife admit she is a writer, that she has always been a writer inspired me to ask the same question.
Am I a writer?
I’ve always had the core idea for a sci-fi book, written a bit like Philip K. Dick meets Isaac Asimov. I sat down to write it and instead a story flowed from my fingers that I had little control over. The core of it was revealed to me in dreams. I honestly didn’t know where it was going until each part was written. It’s the story of a biker, his riding companion and how he comes to know himself and his companion. It’s really sad in places. I cried as I wrote those parts, often so hard I had a hard time seeing the screen as I typed, as I lived the events with the characters. As a rule I don’t cry, still reading over what I wrote brings tears to my eyes. (This is actually a bit uncomfortable for me to admit.) I honestly don’t know if the words are reflections on my life experience or just something I made up. My daughter recently read it, she commented on how sad parts of it are and on how she cried as she read it. So perhaps I am a writer, defined by the ability to convey emotion, to create a scene in my reader’s head that is real enough to bring tears to their eyes?
Before I started this book I thought writing was about writing what I wanted to say, instead for me it has become about writing something else entirely, something I don’t yet understand, something that just has to be said. A couple other story ideas have come to me, in my dreams. Stories I would never have consciously thought to write, I’m working on them now.
Some say I’ve found my muse and she is guiding me, other say I’m crazy. Either way, honestly I’m comfortable.
So, am I a writer? I leave it to you to decide, all comments welcome.
