Writer's Itch

Miller's Facebook status yesterday.
click to enlarge

I've got a slew of stories to write in conjunction with my last post, David.  It feels amazing to not only be in the writing mood, but have inspiration to write from as well. Donald Miller, author of Blue Like Jazz, posted a thought on Facebook that really hit home for me. I felt like it identified exactly where I've been with my writing for the past few months - or perhaps forever - and exactly where I want go instead.

Today, I asked myself what wants to be written.

I've got posts for The Daily Heretic I've been waiting to write and really should. I want to progress the stories related to David, but I got enough of an outline finished yesterday that I can easily come back to it a few days from now. Burnout is an issue I'm learning to preemptively conquer. Though I want it, the story itself wants to rest.

A filming session crossed my mind. Last Fall, Jeremiah and I filmed our friend Forest Child the Distiller concocting a custom recipe commissioned by his tattoo artist. The footage has rested, partially edited, ever since.

Today, Forest Child's story wanted told.
Now, I'm not done by any means. But as I sifted through raw footage, choosing which clips to use and which will be cut, a story started to shape itself.

Filmed on iPhones, edited on iMovie, this is hardly a work of professional perfection. I had to remind myself that I can expect professional results from my writing - for that's what I've trained to do for the past seven years - but this isn't the time or place for such expectations.

Once I dealt with the unrealistic expectations and let myself work, the itch to write I woke with was scratched. I felt like Baloo rubbing my back against a tree.

Screen shot of Forest Child the Distiller's shitty first draft.
click to enlarge

While I wiggled against my back-scratching tree, an epiphany sprouted. Perhaps Miller's quote didn't provide the exact coordinates of my desired destination. Close, certainly. I find my voice in my writing. I need it. I get depressed and very irritating to be around when I can't write. Perhaps, though, I'm not a writer.

I'm not a writer. 

These words have crossed my mind before and they scared the shit out of me. I got a degree in "Writing" for Christ's sake. I must be a writer.

Today though, they didn't cause fear. Rather, a sigh of relief.

I'm not a writer. I am a story teller.

Most often, writing is the vehicle I prefer to transport stories to audiences. Occasionally, however, the story wants to be told via film, voice, paint, or yarn and needles.

I am not a writer. I am OK with that now.

Tomorrow, I will ask myself not what wants to be written, but what story wants to be told and how does it want me to tell it.