“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” -Anton Chekhov
There is nothing more exciting and terrifying than admitting to oneself that one is, indeed, a writer (though it must be noted that admitting this to the world is a wholly different thing). The uncertainty in seemingly certain things is daunting: the words deliberately omitted, the daring punctuation used to prove a point, the simple sentence with the complex meaning — not to mention the fear and paranoia of falling into the trap of clichés.
More than anything, a writer writes. No, scratch that. A writer writes, always. Just as a singer sings everyday, at the very least. And just as an athlete trains unceasingly.
Yet there is something about writing that makes my skin blanch in anxiety and makes my heart catapult out my bedroom window when faced with a blank screen or a cold Parker pen perched on top of a blinding piece of paper — not even a scarlet-stained dagger for added effects. The emptiness, the endless possibilities, and the limited skills are enough to make me tremble in fear.
With that said, I can never really fully claim to be a writer. Not when I would constantly crumple that mental piece of white paper in my head, diagnosed with mediocrity, long before I have written on my hard-earned Galison notebook tucked invitingly on the top drawer of my nightstand, or the colorful stash of Post-Its that I always have in my purse.
The irony is that I described myself as such, in this blog.
Now the question is, can I write — always? Am I, indeed, a writer?
Having said all that, I am joining the Post a Week 2011 campaign made by WordPress. Fingers crossed! If you’re part of this campaign too, let me know, perhaps we can constantly check up on each other’s blogs.