I don’t fit in anywhere.
That is just a fact. It isn’t easy to deal with sometimes, but it is true. Most of the time I am an introvert in the classic sense, I don’t mind being alone, it has nothing to do with energy. I live inside my head. I always have. Ideas, thoughts, what if, imaginary worlds all occupied my mind more than the real world. I was horrible at school, not only did I barley show up I didn’t learn anything, didn’t participate, and had no clue what was going on. So, I spent my time there doodling. Honestly I could barely write, I could read just fine, and math, oh, math was murder. Anyway, I didn’t fit in at school.
I have been a grown up for sometime now and I don’t fit in the normal places too. Work, forget about it, responsibility to my family is what keeps me there. Most people are trying to climbing a corporate ladder, I am just kicking rocks at the bottom refusing to climb. The work conversations are dominated with sports talk, which puts me out of the conversation. My life hasn’t been devoted to fitting in or getting ahead. No, my life has been devoted to my family. My job, supports that end, but it is not something I want to do with my time, it is not a place I excel at. I don’t like people having control over my life for their own ends. But it is the situation I am in, like most people.
But there is something I have on and off again went for. There is a dream that I want to pursue I make headway and then lose it. That is a career in the arts. My natural vocation. My instinctual work. I want to express myself. I want to create something for others to enjoy. I don’t want to me seen, but want my work to be seen.
The first time I thought I wanted to be a writer was at thirty three. But I was wrong. I have a spotted past of writing with a dim history of wanting to write, wanting to express myself. But being horrible at English, and not having the write tools, I didn’t think to pursue it. I have always known I loved to draw. I have envy of those who make their living cartooning. And when I turned Thirty three, I realized I wanted the same thing from a writing. I would love to make my living writing. Yet, with that realization it is not enough. I haven’t found my footing yet, I am thirty eight now, and it seems to me that it is too late to give up on writing and drawing, that in fact it is my only hope to having a life I truly want to have. The truth is I am just starting (it is a really long start). I have gotten better, but I am just starting, after a whole life of wavering I only have one choice and that is to do what I am doing right now. To do what I used to steal time to do in the early morning. To write.
To get to the point, I am sorry.
I am sorry to myself and my calling. I am sorry to the world if anything I would have written or created could have influenced you for the better and I didn’t do my part. I am sorry. But the fact is I am a writer. So here I am joining the rest of the millions of writers in the world. I love you. please forgive me, because I am going to suck for a long time and eventually will get better. Thank you for reading. I am hoping to live for at least another forty plus years, so we will be spending a lot of time together.