So You Want to Be A Writer?

The point of this was to write quickly, and without thinking. To write without pausing for revisions because the editor need not be present while the writer is doing the writing. The point of this was to prove that I could commit to something—at the behest of self, alone—which offered no external reward. To write without waiting for the right conditions; to establish consistent practice and to be, above all, sincere.

“Your essay reminded me of this poem.” R wrote.

It was Charles Bukowski’s so you want to be a writer?

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.

You must understand, when I got the bright idea to write every day for 30 days, it was nearly 2 in the morning, and I was in no position to make lofty promises. I had gotten into the habit of—and was, perhaps, emboldened by—walking around the park at golden hour with a journal in hand, sampling different benches on an exploit to determine which was my favorite. Which one had the best view and produced the best work. Finding myself distracted by the children buzzing around me, under supervised after-school play, by the list of chores, and the studying, and the dinner menu. On my days off, I could manage to arrive just before the sun began to set behind the steeple of St. Stanislaus Kostka Church, to prime myself for the mining. It was during this fleeting window that I felt most inspired, provoked by the blond shafts of light being cast down from Heaven.

“So you want to be a writer?” I wrote, the next day, and stared into the blinding paradise until stars spotted my vision. Waiting, and waiting, for something to burst out.