I'm a writer. It's not what I do, or how I earn my living. It's what I am. It took me a long time to realize that. Maybe someday I'll write novels or screenplays. Or maybe these few electronic scribblings will be the extent of my reach. Regardless, I write. It's how I process.
We live in the social media age. As I type these words, I'm very aware of the fact that there are people, real people with lives, and jobs and bills to pay who take time out to read them. That fact never ceases to amaze me. And I would be lying if I said the craving that vicarious attention isn't part of why I write.
A friend commented that this blog will make a great journal someday. He was wrong. Because no matter how good a writer I am, the stories that I choose to tell here are for public viewing. I don't share the deeper stories. I firmly believe that everyone gets to tell their own story. I have ten kids who are adopted from all over the world. If you ask one of my children a question about her sibling, she will say, "Go ask her yourself. It's her story."
And that's why I find myself this week dreading the keyboard. I enjoy the process of writing. I enjoy the storytelling, and I think I'm a good enough writer to protect people's privacy and still tell a compelling story.
But not this week.
This week, I've had to admit that I'm just a hack with a social media account. I have family, some close, some distant, who are going to through incredibly hard things. Life and death, law and order, never going to be the same again things. And I can't find the stories. I can't, or maybe I don't want to, find the narrative that shares a message and still protects privacy.
I'm a writer who can't write.
That's silly, Rodney. You're writing right now.
Maybe. But, I'm not really writing. I haven't really written for days. I'm simply typing. The words are mine, but they lack fire and emotion. There's no story.
Maybe someday I'll tell the stories from this week. And they are big enough that a hundred lifetimes couldn't erase them from my memory. Maybe the emotion has simply gotten in the way and I'll soon find the string that will unravel the tangled mess that is my thoughts right now. Maybe.
Until then, I'll type, but I can't promise it will be worth reading.
I feel like I've used up all my words.
Rodney M Bliss is an author, columnist and IT Consultant. His blog updates every weekday. He lives in Pleasant Grove, UT with his lovely wife, thirteen children and grandchildren.
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