Aspirations

I have long aspired to be a freelance writer. I’ve done tons of research. I have grad schools picked out to teach me how to develop characters and polish my thoughts into shiny nuggets of literary brilliance. I would love to spend my days spinning stories and knitting together worlds that are not my own.

Here’s the problem: I don’t actually have anything to say that seems even remotely publishable. I could write until my fingers fall off about motherhood and my children. But I’m relatively sure that what I would write hasn’t already been said a hundred times before by much better writers than I. Other than that, I’m not much of an expert in anything else. Therefore there’s not much else that I could write credibly about.

I’m no Annie Proulx who has such a visceral tie to the land in Wyoming and the people who live there. Who can tell stories about people of such depth and personality that I would love to buy them a beer. I just don’t have those kinds of roots anywhere, much less where I live now.

I’m no John Irving or Tom Robbins or Christopher Moore or Wally Lamb who employ such smooth-tongued characters to tell their stories. It’s like they have some razor sharp inside view into human nature that gives them some special power to craft dialogue that demands to be remembered.

I’m no JRR Tolkien or C.S. Lewis or Phillip Pullman or J.K. Rowling who lavish their paper worlds with such immense color and fantasy. I wonder if these magical kingdoms came straight from their everyday imaginations or if by some slide of hand they were given a glimpse into a wholly other world full of spectacle and glory.

The only insight I have is into my own personal brand of crazy. The only glory gleaned from my daily life is on those days when I manage to tick off a few things on a to-do list or not to yell too much. The inherent spectacle is brought by my children and their penchant for dramatic displays.

So where does this all leave me and my aspirations? Well, writing to you, of course.