I have been
chasing an unobtainable dream. I wanted to be a writer. But I don’t know how to write. I didn’t grow
up reading the classics. I didn’t pursue a literary degree in college; instead,
I studied journalism, which in my opinion isn’t creative writing at all, and I
studied theology: the endless search to find God. Many journalists and
theologians write, but most of it is simply reinterpreting what they’ve seen or
read and trying to say it in a new way.
But real writers
write. Stories flow from them. I’m not saying they don’t work; obviously it
takes dedication. I’ve had the dedication but not the ability. Why did I not
realize sooner that I have no gift for the pen?
I suppose I have
the gift of music, although I pretty much see that as a curse, also. I have
pursued music way too much in my life. It has always paid in small dividends.
Had I neglected that gift and just worked hard at a job, any job, and not been
swayed by the starry-eyed dreamers lusting for stardom, then I would not be
broke at age 58, unable to travel, unable to pay my bills, unable to enjoy
life. But I do have the gift for music. I’ve always been able to play drums. It
came naturally. And I’ve worked at it, I’ve sharpened my skills, but I did have
skills to sharpen. Many times, more than I can count, I have been asked to help
those who have almost no musical talent, no skills to sharpen. But they have a
golden idol: stardom, or some foolish desire to stand on a stage, or to be
heard. I’ve always complied with their requests. I’ve practiced hard to learn
their songs and to help them in whatever way I could. And generally, I’ve had
the highest of hopes for them, but deep down inside I knew their dreams would
be shattered: they had no gift, no skills to sharpen.
And when it comes
to writing, I’m just like those poor wretched souls who I have watched suffer
so many times in my life. I have paid a heavy mental toil because I’ve never
been able to finish a novel, but I don’t have a novel in me. It’s not that I
can’t string sentences together, I can, but it’s because I never know where to
go with a story. It just doesn’t come natural. I’ve been chasing an unobtainable
dream, but I don’t know why. What makes a person want to write? Is it revenge?
I’m afraid that might be my inspiration, and that’s not good. I don’t know why
anyone should write, other than to pass information from one generation to
another, but writing for revenge is like contemplating murder. And in the end,
who suffers most, the one who is murdered or the murderer? I’d say the
murderer. He or she has to live with what they’ve done, even if they thought
they were justified, but the murdered are at rest, numb to the cares of the
world. It is the living that suffers, and I am suffering for premeditated
murder. I’ve planned it for so long that it is killing me. But I contend that
this slow suicide would have not been my fate had I simply acknowledged years
ago that I have no gift of writing. That is the dream I should’ve murdered. I
should have buried it, threw dirt over it, put a marker on the grave and walked
away.
When humans collectively
reach for the stars it is admirable because we know all things are possible if
we work together. But when one person prattles on about how he is going to fly
to the moon, we know he is insane. I have been that person, wanting to travel
the galaxy with no spacecraft, no engineering team behind me to build one.
There is nothing more pitiful than a man who does not realize that he is blind,
yet he tries to walk with the seeing but he cannot stay the course; they can
rescue him only so many times. There is nothing more pitiful than dreaming an elusive
dream.
I want to wake up.