Have you ever had one of those moments where you remembered something you did in high school English class and then, knowing it is still in the house, you have to hunt it out. I did that today. I’d been thinking of this particular thing for at least a week, but tried to push it to the back of my head. I didn’t really want it to go away, I just didn’t want to deal with it. And in all reality there is nothing major to deal with. A particular poem I had written in high school was replaying in my head – like an ear worm – and I had to find and deal with it.
After we had moved into this house, I had all these boxes of those sentimental things from my youth recovered from storage. Glancing quickly through them I realised I should put them inside, and that’s when they start playing on my mind.
I finally sorted those boxes today, 2 years later. And had a few lots of cringe moments upon reading them. Amongst all sorts of newspapers, old photos, and the school magazines (one day I may show a picture of me, back when I had pigtails and glasses), I found what I was looking for. My memory serves me well, I knew the folder as soon as I saw it. And what it contained. Those papers proudly labelled “manuscripts” and story plots, a few really bad short stories and that pile of poems.
My teenage mind worked in very strange ways and if I recall, even back then I had no idea what I was going on about. If you ask me, I will deny everything, not that there is anything to deny…. Although, if I channelled it and had enough coffee, I could probably work some magic now.
But I am not a writer. No offence to my writer friends (you know who you are, I love you all) but it seems every man and his dog wants to be a writer these days. I am not a writer. Sure I loved English, and the creative writing sessions, but I have no inclination to write and publish my works.
For me, blogging is completely different style of writing to wanting a book published.
Writing is a form of release, a state of emotion, a conversation. Some of us are really good at it. Able to put meaning and emotions into a small space. Others, not so good. I try and get it right half the time. It’s one of the reasons I keep the blog going. Writing, sharing my thoughts, my life.
This first poem is vaguely amusing in its obscureness. As I read it to write, I am already re-writing it in my head. If you ask, I may put the revised version to page.
I see this relating to all the blogs out there, the plethora of voices, everyone calling out, wanting to be read, liked, enjoyed.
MISCELLANEOUS (- VOICES)
Converse, talk, blabber,
Yell, shout, curse,
Whine, moan and complain.
Flat tone.
Long, monotonous,
Boring, tedious annoying or funny.
Hilarious, frightening or warped.
Bubbly, chirpy, happy,
Songy, wiggly, wobbly.
Morosely, mad and zinging.
Sweet, mushy, sloppy
Thick, slimy, messy and slow.
Shrieking, drawling, crying,
Gravelly, sensuous and low.
High, horrid or hungry,
Big, beautiful or bountiful.
Panicked, preoccupied and plentiful.
Just remember. I am not a writer. I am not a writer. Please let me know your thoughts on this strange little prose, all comments, good and bad, are welcomed.
Jennifer, at 16. 😉
Laugh. Love. Live 
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Calling oneself a writer is the latest thing these days, isn’t it?
Great post, Jennifer, you non-writer, you!
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Haha, after reading some of the other comments, would you have called me a writer (it seems some people may have) depending on your definition of said word.
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Kurt Vonnegut has a character in one of his books who is constantly writing….one day the character meets a person and the person says, “wait a minute, I know who you are…you’re that famous writer!”…
Up till that point the writer had never realized that he was in fact; a write…it was merely something he’d been doing…..
So all that brings me to my little moral of the story: sometimes we don’t realize who we are until someone else tells us!
although…even before my first girlfriend told me I knew I would be a wonderful boyfriend ;0) j/k ( I cleaned that sentence up quite a bit if u know what i mean 😉 )
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Lol, for the last sentence.
I understand what you’re saying, but what I’m meaning, is that while I write, it is not my passion, my reason for living, that niggling feeling in the back of my mind that I have to do something about.
Writing for me, and only on my blog/s, is purely sharing my life. To some deep desire to let out an inner beast, or analyse deeper issues.
People I know have said I write well, and am good at it, but would they say I was a writer – when they know so many other aspects of my life??
Would you say I was a writer, or just someone who writes well?
Maybe it is my definition of writer that is skewed, or I am just in denial?
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Your poem is better than anything I could have written. But, in general, I really prefer prose to poetry.
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Me to. I spose this is more prose than poetry. Poems have to rhyme.
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-grin- You sure do write a lot for someone who’s not a writer. :p Seriously, I don’t think writing is about wanting to be published, although that can come into it too. It’s about getting an idea and running with it, to see where it takes you. If you ever get that urge don’t ignore it because you are ‘not a writer’. That said, I am definitely not a poet so I’m sorry but I can’t comment on your poem. I do like the odd haiku though?
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I’ve had to think about what I’m saying in response to this. You brought up a valid point or two. One reason I don’t see my self as a writer is point you made about getting an idea and running with it. I just don’t do that anymore.
I rarely write for other reasons than my blog/s.
I do find this funny as when I wrote that poem and others I did want to be a writer – romantic fiction no less – which I feel was more a pipe dream than something I was serious about. Hence the dropping completely out of my head, growing out of it per se.
I wrote because I like it, not because of any other reason. I have noticed over the last two years my writing has gotten better, but if you practice long enough you do get better.
And then, because of some comments I received with points I had not considered, I think I am either in denial or my definition is out of whack.
Before I wrote this post, would you have called me a writer?
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‘Before I wrote this post, would you have called me a writer?’
I’m not trying to duck this question but I did think you had the potential to be a writer. For me, that potential is based on how you write rather than what you write. And you write /well/.
Metan doesn’t consider herself to be a writer either and yet, I could see her writing a book about the history she loves so much.
Maybe tipping over from potential to actual is just a case of getting that one idea that won’t let you go. Don’t sell yourself short Jen.
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Ahh. You make things tough. The whole being able to write about a passionate subject makes everyone a writer. But we don’t all find that subject or passion.
I definitely see Metan as a writer. She is not only passionate but her style invites you in with ease and you are transported to her world in an instant.
As for selling myself short, there is that comment that makes one second guess themselves, and question what they are indeed doing.
Thankyou for your compliment. Mum says I have the gift of the gab, being able to write fluently as does my father. I love writing, it’s just my subjects that make the difference I spose.
Thank you again 🙂
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Writing a blog and writing a book are only different in terms of perception. Yours. 🙂 All I’m saying is to keep the door open. I would have started writing 20 or 30 years ago if I had not been so convinced I wasn’t imaginative enough to write fiction.
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I don’t have the stamina to write a book. A blog is only as long as I want it to be.
I understand all of this, and it may take years for me to get my head space accepting the difference or lack there of. I don’t identify as one, it is to written anywhere in my bio etc..
You had to get into that space, maybe I will, maybe I won’t.
Thanks again. 🙂
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-hugs- Sorry, I know this is something that can only happen from within. 🙂
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All good. It’s nice to get another point of view and something to think about.
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🙂
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