Writer's Pride

This is an essay that I wrote recently that sums up the time in my life when i would call myself an "amateur writer". By amateur writer I mean that I had a few words typed into a Word document.

“I’m an amateur writer.” I remember that being my interesting fact that I would use when meeting new people. You have to have an interesting fact when meeting someone otherwise you’re just a face that they may or may not forget based on how attractive you are. Some were impressed by my self-proclaimed profession, others weren’t. The inevitable question that would be asked following my statement would be “What do you write?” to which I reply, “Stories”. Then after that point the questions would deviate somewhat. “What do you write about? What genre? Do you have a favorite author? Have you finished anything?”

I write about whatever entertains me and in whatever form I find amusing. My favorite genre is science fiction, but I’ve never been courageous enough to dive in with the likes of Lucas, Roddenberry and Bay. The title of “favorite author” was one that I had never bothered to give to any one person so I usually just threw out a name and prayed that no one asked for a clarification of my decision. Tolkien usually worked because suddenly the conversation would shift to tiny men taking a stroll and giant eagles that could have saved everyone a whole lot of trouble. And no one would realize that I had only read one and a half of his books before getting distracted by my family’s Netflix subscription.

The only “finished” works of mine at the time were poems and essays that had been assignments in high school. Yet still I considered myself an “amateur writer” with great potential. And by potential I mean imagination. Frequently, when I was bored in public and did not want to go through all the effort of pulling my phone from my pocket I would cast Jedi mind tricks on myself.

 “This is not the reality you are looking for”

“This is not the reality I am looking for” 

And poof. Suddenly, the oh so boring wait for the school bus to arrive was filled with adventure and excitement. Monsters would roam the street in front of me terrorizing the innocent and unassuming public. Evil overlords would look on from afar and laugh at the chaos they had sewn across a once peaceful land.

Then, just as all hope had been lost, valiant heroes carrying weapons that had been forged from a dying star or inside the heart of a volcano would emerge. The crowds would cheer as legions of monsters and devil spawn were slain in a single strike. Then, a long and dangerous trek to the fortress  atop a high and foreboding mountain where the evil king/queen/person would be killed or mercifully spared (depending on my mood) and finally a kiss from the heroes beloved. But just as the two lean in for a declaration of love the bus would pull up, slam on its breaks and give a resounding pssshh and the exhaust pipe filled the air with the acrid scent of burning O-zone.

And I was the only witness in the entire world of what had happened. But I wouldn’t tell anyone; except for family on long road trips when we all could use a change of scenery. My mother would then say, “Oh. Honey, that was wonderful you should write it down” while my little brother nodded his head in agreement. While my parents’ feedback was always biased, I could trust my brother for a genuine response. Two nods meant “write it down there’s potential”, one nod meant “I’m just being polite but we both know that story sucked”, three nods meant “I have Crazy Train stuck in my head and I didn’t hear a thing you just said”.

So if I got two nods, I would write it down. I would write just enough to convince myself that I was an “amateur writer” then I would get distracted by a nine minute and thirty-five second video of a cat jumping in and out of a box. I know that it was nine minutes and thirty-five seconds because I watched the whole flippin’ thing. And so did three million other people. This cat had such fame and recognition and adoration just because of what it did naturally.

There was no scripting involved. No one wrote, “Cat jumps in box. Cat jumps out of box. Cat jumps back into box. And just when it looks like he’s going to stay in the box… HE JUMPS OUT OF THE BOX!” The cat just had natural talent. Then I would reread or reedit what I had written so that I could be as talented as that cat.

After this reediting process my stories always wound up being seven paragraphs long. The beginning of a beginning and the middle of a beginning. That’s it. I didn’t even get to the good part where the monsters would attack people. I was still talking about my protagonist’s childhood. But, because I had written something I could still call myself a writer.

And I still had my interesting fact.