I’m not a writer.
For the poor, delusional individuals that seem to think otherwise; I don’t know where you’ve been getting your information from, but I can assure you that you’ve been sadly misinformed. I am a writer like politicians and public figures are writers - that is to say, I am literate. And I choose to take advantage of that literacy, poorly, and to little avail in terms of personal satisfaction.
I am not a writer.
I am to writing what food labels are to literature. I am to eloquence what greeting cards are to poetry. I am to rhetoric, depth and voice what Poe, Austen, Bronte, and Wilde were absolutely not. The staggering offense and injustice of myself being transitively associated with such figures through our similar interest is overwhelming and distressing.
I am not a writer.
My appeal is obvious and superficial - I need not even name it. It is an appeal that I exploit ruthlessly, and shamelessly. It is my only appeal. Without it, I suffer, and wane.
I am not a writer.
-As anyone who has ever read my work can confirm. I am shallow, vague, common, boring, impudent and infantile; and I achieve it all under the same, haughty, pretentious tone that I have incorrectly donned as Confidence, but which is quickly found out.
I am not a writer.
I am far too emotional, too detached, too brainless, too intelligent, too passionate, too apathetic, too unorthodox, too conventional, too brave, and far, far too afraid to be a writer; to even try.
I am not a writer.
But sometimes, just for me, just to think, just to understand, just to gain perspective, just to have one thing to myself…
…in spite of it all…
I write.
