A Taste of Ashes

You and me, reader—we're buds, right? I mean, I can tell you something—something about me—and you'll promise not to hold it against me, won't you? I'll warn you: it's not flattering. It's not really the kind of thing people want to go writing about themselves and posting all over the interwebs.

But I'm not people and this isn't the interwebs (just go ahead and ignore the part where neither of those things is true): I'm a writer and this is my blog. Telling you shit about myself is just part of the gig.

That's enough disclaimer for all of us, right? Good. Here goes.

I am a writer.

Wait. I already said that like two lines ago. I am a writer? That's it? That's my big, unflattering reveal?  Is this like one of those job interviews where they ask you what your weakness is any you say, "I'm just too goal-oriented," or "I'm a deadline fanatic." I mean, the word fanatic is a little off-putting, but you're not fooling anyone. That's a poorly disguised plug for yourself, and that's your real weakness.

But listen. I am a writer is a really loaded statement. It means some really cool things, sure. Like knowing lots of obscure grammar rules (super cool). Like getting thank you notes in return for thank you notes I've written (incredibly cool). Like knowing when people will fail a test just because the questions are written poorly (the very coolest).

Cool as I've just made it sound, I am a writer also means a lot of things that are exactly as I billed them: unflattering. It means my brain works more or less like a crazy person's brain (skeptics may find proof in this article, or in spending an afternoon in my company). It means I come from a long legacy of addicts and depressives and victims. It means I live inside this maddening duality: the delusion that you care about what I have to say, and the terror that you don't.

But most unflattering of all, readers, is what I am a writer means about me, specifically. Because you see, readers, for me, being a writer means ignoring who I am. It means daily disowning the part of me that is uniquely me—the thing I do best and the thing I love most about myself (except my eyebrows, which are exceptional by any standard).

Talk about unflattering! I have this thing that not everyone has, this thing I love, and most days I just pretend it doesn't exist. Like most writers, I have a boatload of excuses—many of them (such as a kid and a full-time job) are even legit. But let's be real. If I needed to find the time to write, I'd find it.

Kafka said that "a non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity." The way I read this, the writer is a monster either way: a composed monster when writing, and a monster on the edge when holding the words back. You wouldn't want to take either home to your mother, but one you can trust to live in your closet.

I've put writing on such a high shelf that my courtship with insanity is coming to an end. Insanity has purchased a ring and I'm picking out china patterns. We'll be honeymooning at Waverly Hills.

I'm not going to exorcise my excuses here. I'm not going to make some kind of resolution about more words on the page. I'm not even going to try to pretend that writing this post is a small step in the right direction. I'm just going to say one thing, or rather borrow one thing from a writer more dedicated to her craft than I may ever be. A writer so prolific, so respected that her name, which you can't hope to spell correctly on your own, comes standard in your spellcheck tool—Simone De Beauvoir:

A day in which I don't write leaves a taste of ashes.

Tragic. Poetic. Commendable grammatical structure. Truth.

And because truths aren't very often truths in a one-person vacuum, I've decided to share her words with you today. Is there any chance I'm in good company? That perhaps you're not a writer (lucky you!), but that maybe you're something else. Something untapped. Something special. Something more.

Is there a chance that the smokey flavor on your lips isn't the stress of your job or the frustrations in your relationship or the difficulties with your kids, but rather a residue of the fire that burns within? The fire that you keep contained, corralled behind a line of excuses, defenses, and fears?

Maybe not. Maybe I'm the only monster with a mouth full of bitter embers.

But as much as I write for myself, I'm eternally optimistic that I'm writing for you too. Yes you. The one down front with cinders on her breath. Go on now. Stop trying to hide the smoke—it's coming out of your ears. That fire's going to consume you either way, so you might as well burn with purpose.