I have always been envious of people who had a talent. Playing an instrument, art, writing, and building—these are all things I admire tremendously. For the life of me, I do not think I could point to a time in my life where I have ever felt talented. I could never draw,
or
paint, or run fast, or lift more than anyone, I never scored the most goals or been the best of my friends in a video game.
That is not to say I wasn’t physically gifted—sort of. By my senior year of high school, I was 6’0, and 185 lbs. I was playing varsity hockey and captain of the debate team. Smart enough, physical enough, to coast.
It took me longer than I care to admit to learn that talent, while in part God-given, is also developed by practice.
So, that is what this is. Practice.
I am here to write for myself, but admittedly also for an audience. Journaling for myself seems pointless—so says my ego. To try and manage my ego, I have a place where I can get the chance of audience feedback while not openly seeking it. having something that forces me to work out my writing muscle.
Poet Rudy Fransisco once said:
“Muscle is created by repeatedly lifting things that have been designed to weigh us down. So when your shoulders feel heavy, stand up straight and lift your chin – call it exercise.”
I am here to exercise. For that same portion of my life, where I did not realize talent was in part practice. I was also supremely self-conscious of my body. Concerned about how I looked—numbers on a scale, the whole nine—it's a story for another day.
What I have realized is that art, or really any form of expression, is for the artist. It is an extension of the creator. Sometimes words are not enough; they must be put to melodies that spill open a heart from unrequited love, from a cacophony of anger.
Other times a blank canvas is coated with lines and shades. Each, a word unable to escape the artist's mind. So they meticulously etch or sloppily splatter to their hearts’ and minds’ content.
For me, my thoughts are not for music. They move with two left feet. Probably pretty funny, but ultimately not what anyone wants to see. My thoughts are unruly for canvas, like spilling off the edges. Not grandiose enough to be encased in bronze or carved into marble.
There was an understanding when writers centuries ago wrote their great novel; there is a chance it is to be forgotten. Paper is not made to last forever. Stone gets weathered; the internet will one day disappear—no matter what the tech bros say. Writing involves margins, or lines. Guardrails for your thoughts as you navigate expression.
I have never been good at shutting up. The voice in my head goes continuously. The lines on a page or the margins on the screen keep the thoughts from losing their place. Each word carefully chosen to encapsulate the feelings of each corner of the thought being had.
Robin Williams said in Dead Poets Society:
“A man is not very tired, he is exhausted. Don't use very sad; use morose.”
When writing at all, be it a text, skeet, or caption, I have always tried to avoid “very” after seeing it when I was 14. I wish I could say it has stuck with me because of the message or even say it was for my love of Robin Williams. I would be a liar to say any other reason, but the quote above goes on to say
“Language was invented for one reason, boys—to woo women—and in that endeavor, laziness will not do.”
I always kept that line in mind because I was always trying to impress girls, women! There was nothing more to it. Just a dumb teenage boy who heard something in a movie and thought nothing deeper of it.
As it goes, sometimes the silly things we hold on to from our younger years end up being able to engrain something in me. Like a slow trickle of water hollowing stone, the original purpose of my remembering not to use “very” no longer seems as important—it gets to be a funny anecdote at parties.
Why am I even mentioning it? That has been my driving philosophy in how I write. I write like I am talking to my paper or writing a letter. This is a conversation. Anytime I try to “write” how I think writers should “write,” it always feels forced and stilted. It becomes verbose and flowery, like I am trying to replicate 19th-century poetry.
What I let spill from my fingers here will be something above rambles, but nothing more than what I wanted to write about on any given day.
Love you all. Thanks for being here.