I want to be a writer more than anything. I want to prove to
myself and maybe everyone else that the voice in my head has something
worthwhile to say. Some days I think it does, at least, until I look back and
read the jumbled mess that I dumped so carelessly on the page. I don’t
understand how the greats weave such beauty, such intricate life out of letters
built into words strung into sentences. It starts out as such silent nothing,
and some people have an amazing capacity to pull a voice out of the thoughts
and experiences most people discard—a process akin to the building of
Frankenstein’s monster from a grim assemblage of lifeless body parts. Where did
Shelley get the electricity to bring Frankenstein to life? I want that
life-giving creativity; it must bring you close to God, to create life where
there was emptiness and void.
How do you know if your thoughts even matter? I mean, what
makes one person’s inner world so much more interesting than anyone else’s?
Maybe it’s in how you tell the story. You don’t have to be interesting to begin
with, but you have to know how to keep attention. You need charisma. You need to
seem interesting. I have never been a good storyteller. I used to write short
stories as a kid in elementary school, but I would get bored with the plot long
before anyone else got the chance to fall asleep to my words.
But damn it, I want to write. That emptiness and void
engulfs me, and all I want is to fill it so tight with new life that it has no
room to swallow me anymore. When I feel so alone that my heart is tired of
beating, I want to be surrounded by these people I’ve created. And I will know
that they see every part of me as I do them, and there is no love lost between
us; there is no fear, because we know each other.
Like when I read a book or watch a movie or a series on
television, I involve myself in the lives of the characters. Sometimes, I think
it can be unhealthy, because I use it to escape figuring out my own life. Why
would I if I can live through them? Other times, healthy or not, it gives me
hope. Their stories, though often unrealistic and unbelievable, make me believe
that when I do decide to exit this shell I’ve created for myself here in my
head, when I am ready to face all the anxiety that living creates, then I might
find someone who understands me. And maybe someone like me might not be too
damaged and crazy to be loved.
For now, these characters, these stories, they save me,
because I’m not ready to be real yet. And even though all my psychological
training tells me it isn’t healthy to live in an imaginary world, I’m certain
most people do it in one way or the other. What if I could create that world
for someone, a safe place to prepare to be real? All anyone really wants is the
ability to be real and be safe at the same time. I don’t know if that is
possible, but the closest I’ve ever come to such an achievement is through the
stories I read and watch and hear. Could I help someone get that close?
I want you, whoever you are, to be safe for now, and I know
that one day you will be real, and I will be real. And even though being safe
and real may not be possible to be at the same time, we both know where safety
is—behind colorful cardboard binding, between dots of ink, at the end of someone’s
diary disguised as a work of fiction. You know why this is safe? Because
someone decided to be real with letters built into words strung into sentences.
When someone else is real and let’s us in on it, it makes us feel real, even if
we aren’t ready to prove it.
