Becoming a writer…. by writing

I have been waiting to become a writer, before starting to write.

Up to now, I wasn’t sure that my life has been extraordinary enough to write about. I don’t think it matters what I think, anymore. Who am I after all, to make such a judgement? Judge not lest thee be judged, is that how it goes? What if I judge myself? Does that lead to more onerous judgement by other or some greater power? What good does self-judgement do? Is it not better to accept what has been, and what is, as the culmination of all our thoughts and choices up to this point? Thoughts and choices that are in our past, and that therefore cannot be changed?

All that is left then, is the choice to ignore, to learn from or to be entertained by the consequences of those thoughts and choices that have carried us this far on our journey.

So, who am I to judge the validity of my own story? It’s not an extreme story. It doesn’t involve an harrowing, life threatening experiences or great sorrows. Neither fame nor fortune have yet to play any role, and yet I feel the need to commit pen to paper, finger to keyboard, and to share my experiences.

If I am the only reader, then it will have served the valuable purpose of… well, some level of personal satisfaction and perhaps be of some therapeutic benefit. Maybe someone else will find my anecdotes amusing or my experiences, educational or interesting. Maybe they will identify with certain moments, places, decisions, dilemmas, and realise that they’re not the only ones. Maybe they won’t.

Whatever the reaction, I’m going to do it anyway. Write every day. Finally, write every day. I shall work on a book or two, to be released when finished, but a part of my process must be out there in the public domain. Visible, if sought after. To keep myself in check, accountable. I’ve talked myself in to and out of this for too long now.

To become a writer, I must first write.