I am not...

A lot of things have surprised me in life, but none more than the amount of times I’ve discovered I’m not a writer.

When I was a child, I acted as a child, that is an admissible excuse. It’s elementary school, possible first or second grade, when we are given an assignment… “Starting with each letter of the alphabet, choose an animal and write a sentence about why you like them, and also illustrate a picture of the animal. One letter per page.” I arrive home after school to my Walkman where I left it, plugged into a variety of other electronics, I pretend to hijack the radio waves and begin my fake broadcast across the stereos of the neighborhood. My parents discover the assignment a few days before it’s due, and force me to work on it. I finish the assignment and go back to my pretend world where I believe myself to be the local radio disc jockey. The teacher gives my parents the option of having a published copy of the book I had made. I feel good. Today, it is in a box in my home, somewhere. I am not a writer.

I’m 10 years old, I play air guitar to songs on the radio. My father, with the advice of my uncle, purchases me an acoustic guitar that I won’t care about for several years.

I’m 14, I’m failing all of my classes, for various reasons. I’m in eighth grade English class when we are given a writing assignment. My eyes roll… but the teacher says we can write whatever we want under 500 words, and this grabs my attention. Immediately I want to write a poem about how it would knowingly feel emotionally and physical to turn into a werewolf for the first time. We have a weekend to complete it. Three days and three nights I spend in my room with the television off working on my poem.

It’s Monday, I turn in the assignment.

It’s Wednesday, the teacher asks me to stay after class, she’s accusing me of plagiarism. I’m overcome with sadness and anxiety, how could I have. I angrily cobble together some sentences explaining the time I spent on it and begin to recite it from memory. She laughs, then apologies. I’m still a child, I don’t understand, my frustrations are still growing. She says she thought it was too good for someone as young as me to have written. This feeling that sentence gives me never leaves, it becomes a defining moment in my life. She wants to submit it for a contest and says she’ll pay the fee. I agree.

It’s Friday, I’m one of two students that she wants to have read their writings in front of the class. I read, they clap, I’m proud. I fail to turn in the next several assignments, I don’t care, I don’t understand why.

It’s a while later, results are in, teacher seems proud, I’m excited to have won. She says a high placing number amongst the thousands of entries. It’s not first, I'm crushed, I am not a writer.

I’m 17, I’ve found friends who play instruments. I begin playing guitar. I drop out of school, for other reasons not related to drugs. I sleep, I play guitar, I spend ample amounts of time walking around town avoiding going home.

I’m 19, I enter the workforce by accepting a job at a local corporate factory with a “small town family feel.” I’m excited. For the first time I have money to live on my own. I purchase an electric guitar, I move in with a friend, I join a band. I’m going to be a Rockstar. I’ll live a simple life of touring, playing large venues, selling out shows. Life will be grand with my four story house, complete with an indoor basketball court, and ‘69 dark blue corvette with a vanity plate that reads midnight, sitting in the garage.

I’m 21, I work, I drink a lot.

I’m 22, I work, I play shows, I drink a lot.

I’m 23, I manage to buy a house, and begin my first journey to college, I play shows, I drink a lot.

I’m 24, I play shows, I drink a lot, I frequent gentlemen’s clubs too often, I lose the house, I drop out of college. I’m not a homeowner. I am not a student.

I’m 25, I write a lot, but never finish what I start.

Somewhere in there I destroy two serious relationships, I’m unsure of who I am, or who I want to be, but I know none of it’s my fault... I am not a boyfriend

I’m 26, I drink a lot less, I allow the degradation of a third serious relationship. I am not a boyfriend.

I’m 27, I am not a Rockstar. I quit the band I’ve been a part of for eight years, I quit the factory job I’ve had for eight years, I discover someone extraordinary, I begin my second journey to college. I study journalism for two semesters. The only assignments I complete are my free writing prompts, and essay assignments.

It’s a week before the beginning of the following fall semester, I analyze my grades, I decide not to resume college, I drop out. I am not a graduate.

I’m 29, I’m a sales associate in a small specialty store. I’m in a serious relationship with a solid foundation. We move in together. We have a roommate, who has a child. Life is good, life seems like a sitcom.

I’m 31, I start a small production company with a friend. We create podcasts. My voice plays across the car stereos in my local neighborhood. I feel good.

I’m 33 now, I’m engaged, I’m a homeowner, I’m an entrepreneur, I’m a podcaster, I am a writer.

For years I’ve let distractions keep me from what I want, and who I wanted to be. My journey is not over, nor has it just begun. I can’t fit all of my experiences or life lessons into a single piece of art, but what I learned about myself is, I do have something to say. I have a thousand characters screaming at me from multitudes of worlds, and it’s time for others to meet them.