I Am Blank
Did you ever notice that certain days just seem to have a recurring theme running throughout it? Like a sitcom plot that brews in the background of an episode at the beginning and comes full circle at the end? Like Chekhov’s gun? Today the recurring theme has been this: Who am I?
Since early this afternoon I’ve been inadvertently trying to answer this question. I’ve been trying my hand at tying up loose ends within my writing, successfully doing so and then sitting and wondering “why.” I like to write, and so I write, and so my words land upon deaf, um, eyes. So what’s the point? Yes it’s for me, but at some point it would be nice for it to be for someone else. Not for monetary reasons or popularity, just for someone to read my words and say “yeah… me too.”
I’ve been struggling for a good portion of the day with this idea, trying to figure out how the hell I can get a foot in the door in the writing community, one that seems to be filled with enough people with ideas similar to mine. Why do they need me? What changes will my words make? Do I really have anything to contribute to any conversations that will be of any note?
In the midst of this, I noticed a post on Tumblr (the all-powerful writer’s distractor) of an image that said simply this:
I AM
Two of the most
powerful words;
For what you put
after them
shapes your reality.
And I realized that I AM… blank. I AM… lost.
I don’t know what I AM. Cover letters freak me out, About Me’s make me shiver and short bios give me the cold sweats. Who am I? I know what I like and I know what I dislike (for the most part), but what shape is my reality? Because right now it looks like a big fat blank square canvas. I tried so hard to connect with my “peers” on social networks, but their 140-character bios seem to say so much more than my life story ever could.
I AM without definition.
I don’t remember how I found Medium. I think it was from scanning those mighty “social” short bios, but I found it. Right at midnight, right as the day turns, right as I’ve given up trying to define myself or find my audience. I find Medium.
…and I AM speechless.
Speechless as in, as always, I don’t have a damn thing to say. As in nothing I’m thinking of or re-reading seems good enough to share with others. Thinking that if I’m so down on everything I have to share, how do I ever expect to find a community?
I AM alone.
I turned to Poets & Writers for a writing prompt to see if I can spark something, anything, to inspire me to gain the courage to write about my most-hated topic again: myself. This happens to be today’s creative non-fiction prompt:
Self-Portrait
Writers share many creative qualities and artistic processes with painters. Both are engaged in the difficult endeavor of portraying oneself through art as an artist. Write six hundred words about you as a writer, manipulating your words and sentences like different brush strokes to create an image of how you perceive your artistic self. Be bold. Be thoughtful. Be candid. Self-portraits are rarely flattering. Art is about truth and true artists never spare themselves.
BANG.
I AM Chekhov’s gun.
I AM a believer of fate.
I AM writing. Right here. Right now.
I AM trying.
I AM trying.
I AM reaching 600 words, not including the prompt itself.
I AM trying.
But who am I?
I AM someone who gets too down on herself without looking at the bigger picture. I despise talking about myself but find myself too often writing about how much I hate talking about myself. I AM about myself. I AM someone who should start talking about—and thinking of—others. It’s not about who I AM, it’s about who YOU ARE and what of yourself you see in ME.
I AM you.
And you are me. And we’re all in this together. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll like what I have to say.
And BANG goes Chekhov’s gun, as blood splattered all over my blank canvas.
