I am not a writer.
I imagine that writers are very sure of their words. They rarely stumble — a stutter is unheard of. I imagine they effortlessly put down on paper the thoughts they have and can articulate them in such a way that everyone reads them with no other interpretation except the one the writer wanted them to have. Right?
I am not a writer.
I imagine that writers don’t have a spiral notebook hidden in the bottom of the side table drawer. A writer certainly wouldn’t sneak that notebook out in the dark of the night and jot down the poems and prose and words and thoughts that pop in to her mind and when she’s done, she safely tucks all those words back underneath all the forgotten bills so no one is the wiser. Right?
I am not a writer.
I imagine that writers write. They don’t stop to take care of their children or pause to run to the store for the forgotten dog food or jump as far away from an unhealthy marriage as possible or watch their parents die a slow painful death or run to the movies just because. Writers write. Right?
I am not a writer.
I imagine that writers always know how to write from their heart. They never get their words confused and release words that should have stayed hidden. Writers know how to pull the thoughts that are causing the beating of their hearts to race and put them down on paper. They know how to sort through the broken musings and unveil only the whole thoughts. Right?
I am not a writer.
I imagine that writers don’t have fragmented hearts. I imagine that writers write from their hearts because they all have perfectly symmetrical hearts ripe with emotion and the thoughts of a life lived in perfect harmony. Writers don’t confuse writing from a fragmented heart using fragmented words and fragmented thoughts with writing from their perfectly beating heart. Right?
I am not a writer.
I imagine that writers have learned all the lessons in life, that’s why they can write. They don’t need to learn any lessons, they don’t need people to teach them, they aren’t perpetual students. Writers have lived and loved and done it all without regret so that when they put their words down on paper, the meaning is clear. Right?
I am not a writer.
I imagine that writers can open their hearts and spill their souls out on to the page and let themselves be seen in the most naked sense of the word and they can be safe and whole and not have missing pieces. Writers are like the perfect puzzle that never has a missing piece and fits together perfectly no matter how many times the pieces are thrown in anger off the table — they always fall back in to place. Right?
I am not a writer.
I imagine that writers know the difference between writing that brings about understanding and conversation and evolution as opposed to releasing a small amount of atomic energy that should have been left to the disposal of little men in hazmat suits. They think and breath and love and trust and open themselves up for all the world to gaze at. They don’t confuse revolving and evolving because they live and write from their hearts — their whole, un-fragmented hearts. Right?
I am not a writer.
I imagine that writers write with wild abandon and are sure-footed and proud of all they put on paper. Writers are the teachers for us all. They have overcome all the lessons that life has handed them and now they can guide us to a better understanding of our own soul-searching efforts. We are all but perpetual students filling the classroom of their thoughts… hanging on their every word. Right?
I am not a writer.
I imagine that writers know when to step away and see things from a distance — the big picture. Writers probably know when they’ve gone too far or not quite far enough. They know the perfect words to use and how to use them… how to order them. Writers know how to write. Right?
I am not a writer.
We are all but perpetual students.
Learning.
Evolving.
Stepping away.
Right?