I am not what I write.
I am not the necessary evil that calls forth the brave ones from the crowd. I am not the brave one who defeats the gunned army and precipitates the world with hope that wanes.
I am not the suicidal dude who likes to sit next to you at history class, hoping you’d tell me I’d live until I’m sixty. I am not the girl who flaunts her body and hopes the hot guy will kiss her so she’d feel needed even just for an entire minute. I am not the daughter who tries to understand the tantrums of her menopausal mother, nor am I the son who wishes he’d grow up to be better than his biological father. I am not the wallflower who watches the sun rise and fall like the steady breathing of the imaginary friend he’s had since he realized he was fit to be the bullied.
I may be the girl who spends her afternoon reading in a forgotten corner of a public library, but she really isn’t me because she wears signature clothes. I may be the man who peers out the window to check on his five year old son as he runs and trips across the front lawn, but he really can’t be me because he hasn’t told a soul about his smoking addiction. I may be the killer, but there’s no way to guarantee it because my sin is not the sum total of my being.
I am not every unspoken desire, every ounce of inspiration, every shadow of the character I inhabit, every tragedy, every crime, every drop of happiness and anger that I know how to write.
If you were struck by my writing, it’s not because I write well, but because you’re convinced that you found yourself in what I write. I am just the willing instrument through which everything about you and your life are made effable.
I am the writer.