Trying to Become a Writer

I am trying to become a writer. There, I said it. This seems a foolish dream, for now, but I don’t see how else a dream can begin other than foolishly. It seems the height of arrogance to declare that I shall become a writer and then assume that such a thing is done with the beginning.

So, I am trying to become a writer. I am doing this with all the daily tasks that we all, as adults, find ourselves with. I’m a mom, so I parent. I am a teacher, so I teach. I am a student, so I work on assignments. I am a reader, so I inhale books as though they were oxygen. Surely I can try to be a writer in there somewhere. 

One thing I am doing in my quest to become a writer is by writing. Once again, I declare the obvious, but this seemed an important aspect of the business. I have wanted to be a writer for years, but never written. That probably doesn’t count. I’ve written a journal on and off, but no staying power there. Perhaps by dropping writings into the universe like breadcrumbs is how it is done. They will let me walk into the deep forest but also let me find my way back when I need to do one of my other jobs. I will leave the breadcrumbs there though. That way I can find my way back to the deep forest to keep exploring.

Fifteen minutes a night, I tell myself. I’ll write for fifteen minutes. This is attainable. If I’m having a good time, I can go for longer, but fifteen minutes is the minimum. It’s been 9 so far. I had better hurry.

So, as I wander into the deep woods of my brain, I will drop breadcrumbs. Perhaps those breadcrumbs will slowly become smooth stones that will remain longer, tracing my path as it grows. But, should the breadcrumbs remain breadcrumbs, nibbled by the small woodland animals of daily life, I think I will keep going. Keep trying.