I don’t write much anymore. Not since I stopped calling myself a “writer.” That was shortly after I came to Emerson. I got to college and realized that these kids, the ones that call themselves “writers,” they’re serious. They don’t write for the beauty or the art of it. They write because they’re good, and they have a passion to write for the rest of their lives.
It’s in the same vein that I feel awkward calling myself a “photographer” or an “artist.” I am neither of those things; I do not make my living creating art.
I’ve never really felt like people should be classified by their careers, anyway. If that were the case, I’d really only be a Coffee Maker. So why do I feel weird calling myself those things?
I get immense joy from taking photographs, creating “art” in whatever sense. I can’t say for certain about the writing, because I’ve not done much of it outside of classwork for a few years, but I’m pretty sure I’d find comfort in that, too.
I keep journals; a few on-line, and a few on-paper. But I don’t do any fictionalized autobiographical writing, I don’t write simply fiction any more, and I haven’t written a poem since high school. What I write mostly in the on-paper journals is therapy, mostly when I feel like I don’t have anyone to talk to.
I guess I feel like a poser, calling myself an artist, claiming to have a creative soul, and never making the time to create anymore.
The last time I did I painted. It was a few months ago, or maybe just one. I don’t remember. I’m bad with time-depth-perception; everything feels like it happened weeks, months ago. I don’t recall all of the details off-hand, but it was for you, JarED (awkward capitalization necessary for identification). We exchanged pride-filled insults, I became frustrated, or maybe angry, and then I painted. I don’t remember what my feelings were, per se, but the scene is rather grim.
I need to talk to you, I know that I do. We both have things that we need to say to each other to get us back on the same page, or at least in the same book. I’ve been getting your messages. I haven’t been ignoring you, I just haven’t had the time, energy, or eloquence to handle this appropriately.
Where’s the painting? Currently, it resides under a cigar box filled with change to keep flat while I wait to decide what to do with it.
Before we talk, though, I need to make it known that I threw your sweatshirt out months ago. Even if you never read this, that is now public knowledge. Feel free to do the same with my underwear.
