Writing
I was sitting at the bar in my favorite tap room, writing in my journal. (I recently learned on Instagram that men do write in journals. I learned this from an ad selling question-and-answer journals for men.) The bartender looked at me and asked if I was a writer, obviously he hasn’t seen the same ad on Instagram that I’ve seen.
Let me clarify. My journal is comprised of blank pages, that’s why my writing wanders a lot, and doesn’t answer any questions, but the bartender’s question did make me ask myself, am I a writer?
Honestly, no. That said, I spend a lot of time in the pursuit of writing. Not just in the aforementioned journal, but also here. I have asked myself many times, would I like to be a writer (i.e., author). The answer is always yes. I want to play the guitar too but have had even less success at that. To be an author, I think you have to feel a book inside of you and be able to reach in and pull it out. I don’t seem to have that, no book, so no reaching-in and pulling-out. All of this is by way of confession I suppose, but there is one thing I can say for sure. I enjoy this, the task of writing and trying to communicate something of myself that others (lucky or unlucky) can get a glimpse of. Will all of this someday lead to something not resembling a 300 word monologue? I don’t know. If that day ever comes, you will see it here. Please don’t hold your breath.