I was a good writer, once. I was a good writer because I wrote. I wrote because I had that fire inside, the one they talk about, the fire that kept Hemingway drunk and Emily alone. The fire that my boyfriend thinks may someday pay our rent. His rent.
I was a good because they told me so, and I believed them. Belief made me good, and most of all, kept me writing.
I stopped writing. Finally, I had written enough, so they put it on a stiff piece of ivory paper and presented it to me, May 15th, 2012: You are a creative writer.
You can stop writing. We believe you now. All this nonsense can stop. Time to go find a job.
The diploma sits alone in a leather embrace while I go find jobs. I work hard at them. I cook, I sew, and thrift-shop and I still read. I don’t write.
I want to write again. Several weeks ago I told my boyfriend (who writes), I will write again when we have children. When I have someone to write for, obviously. And with that, I let go of such a crucial piece of my being that I’m trying not to think about it anymore. I want to be a teacher, a mother, a good wife and a traveler.
But I still want to be a writer.
How else will I ever be able to absorb… Louisiana, body-surfing, barbecue, Tyrin, the clunk and surge of a canoe. The drop of sweat, the bite of whiskey, the hugs and belonging, the dry road across Texas. The frustration of moving and trying and trying harder, and moving and wanting and restlessness. The old friendships, new friendships, the buzz of the internet, the ups and downs and start-overs and pie crust clumping together in a bowl.
I’m going to start writing again. Please, tell me.