On Having Something to Say

I wrote for others — magazines, media outlets, individuals with too little time or too little to say — for years. The writing I did was inconsequential, often insubstantial, but at least paid. I wrote hundreds of thousands of words propelled by demand that, while flattering, was ultimately unfulfilling.

In those years, the sound of my own voice — cowed by the perspectives and personas of others — seemed to atrophy. When I did hear it and commit it to paper, it felt unfamiliar and unwelcome. So, I turned back to formulaic, commissioned words, which, in their predictability and mindlessness, helped me continue to hide from my own voice.

A clever turn of phrase a writer does not make... Anyone can write, but not everyone has something to say. And it is in that magic combination that a writer is born. I began to suppose that I was merely above average in my ability to my construct sentences and find the right words. At best, I told myself, I had the prep school education and patience to fiddle with phrases until they fit together, flowed, and formed an idea. A writer I was not

Then, without realizing exactly what I was doing, I quit writing for others. In the year since I changed careers, I’ve begun to read again — as voraciously as I did when I was a child. I’ve started to lose myself in the infinite worlds of words and, timidly, to consider the frightening possibility that I, too, might actually have something to say.

The simple truth is that writing for others allowed me to hide. In plain sight. From myself. I was going through the motions of the very thing that scared me, without ever having to feel the fear. It was a bit like being afraid of heights, building a house on the side of a cliff, and never taking notice of the abyss that lay just beyond. The danger, though entirely real, never fully materializes if you never bother to look over the edge.

The danger here, of course, is in self-knowledge and subsequent self-disclosure. That takes a special kind of insanity — or strength. Perhaps both. It’s a kind of vulnerability I’ve never liked. Because ultimately, I put pen to paper (or fingertips to keys) for the same reason everyone else does: to have my words read — even if it’s just by God — and to know that they make something or mean something.

I’ve made money from writing that, ultimately, meant very little. Now, I just hope to write something that will mean something. And not just to me.