Then WRITE dammit!
I've always enjoyed writing. I wrote lyrics, poems, jokes, rewrote commercials to fit my ideas, and my own kiddy stories. All before I was twelve. Of the lot, only poems were shared because I knew I nailed the rhyming—my poor mother had to endure those. The rest? Well, come on, they "weren't good enough to share yet", but it didn't stop me from trying. Heck, I got in trouble in 4th and 5th grade for not doing homework . . . several times. Who had time for that? I was busy practicing for my "make-stuff-upper" future. Priorities and all. "Oh no TV time?" Well darn it . . . I guess I'll stay in my room . . . and write or read. Ha! Joke's on you my dear parents. The joke is ON you.
Here's the thing: I did it all in Spanish and that was cool and easy 'cause it's my first language. And then English happened when I moved here. Like seriously? WTF. It totally messed with my brain. Don't get me wrong, I loved learning it. But suddenly I thought: well there it goes, I can no longer write. Like there was some kind of law stopping me from pursuing a passion just because of language change. Stupidest thought I've ever had (cut me a break, though, I was only fourteen). Still, it took years for me to try again. Sure I did some original writing in high school and college but I *just knew* I could never be good enough because of language barrier. Again: WTF. I don't know about you, but sometimes I blow my own mind with my ridiculous thoughts. It's almost like I have a special gift for stopping myself from being brave or something.
I still fancied myself a writer. But I didn't write. Therefore I wasn't.
I can aspire to be a writer all I want. I can dream about it. I can make doodles on blank pages, but if I don't write at least a line or two, then I'm only fooling myself. And that's the worst: letting ourselves down. I didn't want to allow language insecurities getting to me and stopping me. So I wrote in Spanish and translated it to English. Then I tried in English as a big leap of faith . . . you'd think being creative in English was impossible the way I was going about it, but alas. The point is, I did it. I tried, then slowly and surely it became okay to call myself a writer. I realized it didn't matter if I shared my words or not, I just had to write. No excuses.
What does that have to do with me now? Well, sometimes I still let the dream or fear take over and think I'm a fraud. But if I'm writing, I'm not. Right? (Just go with it) I have to keep going and remember the first step is to get butt in chair and write in whatever language/creative way the words speak to me.
I'm a writer. I will do the thing.
How about you?
Any silly excuse ever stop you from pursuing writing?