I Wish I Was A Writer

I wish I was a writer.

With a thirst for words, I would unlock the gate to the bottom of my soul, where every emotion ever submerged was, and I would dig in to find just what I needed.

Of course, all of this would be done while sitting eloquently on my perfectly shaded patio with a typewriter in my direct line of tunnel-vision. But I would look sophisticated and poised in front of this magical mechanism instead of trying to be a part of the latest fad – like I was somehow transported back to the days where a typewriter was an author’s only means of living. And everything would be in black and white.

I would grasp the beautiful instrument in my hands and I would make the most alluring music with every determined stroke. Songs of heartache. Songs of love. Songs of friendship and family. And maybe even one about an old woman lost at sea who finds herself instead of being found.

You’d laugh and cry as you listened to her story come to life. And you would relate to her in some way. Maybe the way she thought about life. Or maybe the way she ended up not wanting to be found, because she liked being lost.

Unleashing the fear of the unknown, I would write away. My fingers would bleed, but I would trudge on. I wouldn’t be able to stop. It would be as if someone’s hands were my hands and their thoughts were my thoughts. They would control the uncontrollable movement my hands would make on the qwerty. It was almost as if I was in a cartoon, my hands flailing dramatically, papers flying in every direction, as my fingers pounded into each letter.

I would have published countless books, and enough articles to fill another book. I would line my expensive mahogany bookshelves with everything I had ever written, and then I would have more bookshelves built to make room for all the other works I would go on to write. And I would write so much more.

My life would begin to look like I was in the movie Groundhog Day, where every morning the same thing started all over again. But it wouldn’t be as overplayed and frustrating as it seemed. It would be romantic. Unable to stop the continuous momentum of my mind whispering thoughts to my hands, it would be an amazing love affair, emotional, passionate, and endless.

There wouldn’t be a single day my thoughts would be jumbled, unable to say a word. There would always be something there, in the back of my mind or the bottom of my soul – a story unfolding right before my eyes as I placed my calloused fingertips onto the keys of my favorite instrument.

I wish I was a writer.

But I don’t have a perfectly shaded patio. Or a typewriter.