My Marbles
I am a consultant at my University's rhetoric center. I rarely sit on the other side of the conversation, but when I realized an un-started application was due in four hours, I signed myself up for a session. The application was for a research position with one of my linguistics professors evaluating what factors influence people claiming The Writer Identity (big scary thunder rings in the background).
I began by talking loudly about my personal struggles with The Writer Identity. I know first hand how societal structures influence the decision to claim this title (queue more scary thunder). I soon began waving my arms around and yelling about why we need more writers. That stories shape the world. That rhetoric instigates change. That what we say matters.
But before I get too carried away, I want to bring myself back to reality. Because as writing matters to the world, it matters to the individual -- to me. As I have mentioned, I am currently trying to tackle the beast of writing a young adult novel (once again, thunder roars).
A week ago, I finished my first draft.
When I sat down to work that night, I suddenly realized that I was writing the end. I found it. I didn't create it. I found it. But the end my characters showed me was not neat.
But my life is not neat. And I would put money on the fact that yours isn't either.
I saw this when I was driving home late at night scream-singing to Julien Baker, letting my mind enfold into her devastating words. That I, a writer, can not be written into a box. I, a writer, can not tie off every loose end. I, a writer, can not explain why my life is unfolding the way that it is. But once again, I am a writer, and the most beautiful thing is that now the writing leads me. Every time I speak words at the screen I get lost and confused and turned around and then it happens; I find something
It's good to lose your mind. I'm glad I've lost my marbles.
The marbles shouldn't always be calling the shots.