My name is Kelsey, and I’m a writer. It almost sounds like a 12-step program, doesn’t it?
“It has been a week since I last wrote a story, but I think about it every minute of every day.”
I’m a print journalism major, English minor, and I’m about to graduate and sink deep into the real world. Terrifying thought, I know. Writing is something that I just have to do—I never really had any choice. I love finding kindred spirits who understand the gritty hard relationship writers have with their writing. We will never be completely satisfied with anything we do, no matter how much the world shakes at our words. So agrees poet Sarah Kay, who says, “My self-confidence can be measured out in teaspoons mixed into my poetry, and it still always tastes funny in my mouth.”
Kay is a stunning spoken-word poet, and in the same poem she talks about how people were disintegrated to ash during the bombing of Hiroshima. Watches and diary pages were the only surviving mementos of these people. So, despite her insecurities (which exist in every writer, ever) she says she keeps writing because, if she ever crumbles and slips like dust through slats in the floor, she wants to be proud of the piece of paper bearing the poetry she leaves behind.
My poetry professor tries to convince us every chance she gets not to be writers. She scares away the ones who don’t really need it, who don’t feel the vibrating echo of words deep in their souls. The die-hards, though, we just suck in our complaints and write anyway, which is what she expects us to do. She knows that real writers never had any choice. We want to leave something behind.