Not too long ago, I cringed when someone referred to me as a writer. For some reason, it really bothered me. I love to write and I’ve done it for years but it’s something I’ve never been able to identify myself as. Perhaps it’s because I have a more limited view regarding what a writer is or what my abilities are. I don’t think I need to write professionally to be a writer but at the same time, I don’t know how else I could transition from my persona as ‘someone who likes to write’ to a title which to me, holds more merit and esteem.
When I moved to Montreal, I did it under the premise that I was going to go to Journalism school. I had finally found a career where I could combine my two greatest passions in life (writing and travel) and get paid for it. I had grandiose dreams of all the places I would go, people I would meet and things I could write about… But long before I had received my rejection letter in the mail, I had decided that Journalism was not something which suited me as well as I had originally thought.
While reading newspapers and magazines, I would see the very linear and monotone methods of reporting events and it simply didn’t appeal to me. What I wanted to focus on were the more on editorial or column-type topics. It was disheartening when I came to realize that not only is Journalism a dying industry but very few professionals ever make it to the level of writing which I so desperately thought I wanted to do.
I revisited the feelings which I had when I did some professional writing in the past. Although I had been told I had creative control, it was frequently pulled out from under me as there were just too many administrative items which needed to be included. It was never anyone’s fault but it bothered me that I would pour my heart out into a really great article, which would then end up in the recycle bin and never be published. I didn’t want to do that again. If I was going to write, it had to be on my own accord.
As time progressed, I also realized that when I write, it’s more of a hobby rather than a career goal. I enjoy writing in my leisure time and about topics which are relevant to me. It’s a purely selfish pursuit which I don’t expect others to always appreciate. I didn’t want to write on someone else’s agenda because I feel that whenever I do, the end result comes out contrived and convoluted.
My final revelation which became glaringly apparent is that I often use writing as a means of therapy. I’ve never seen a counselor, nor do I plan to, but I believe that this is why my blogs sometimes present in a self-pitying tone. It’s not that I’m depressed or seeking sympathy from others, it’s just that writing is often my means of venting. Once words have been laid, they rest there and I feel cleansed. I believe that this is the majority of the reason that since beginning my blog, my journaling has taken a rapid decline. I now purge my thoughts for the world to see rather than keeping them in a password-protected .doc file. It’s exposing but comforting at the same time.
It was while talking with my Mom one day that I finally admitted something which I had thought to be true for quite some time but had never so much as whispered to anyone: I believe that I dreamed my dream of Journalism school as a reason to leave Edmonton. The dream gave me a place to go and a goal to reach. It was perhaps an excuse but one which people would understand and accept. It was if I knew deep in the catacombs of my heart that if I said I needed to leave, just for the sake of leaving, that I would have encountered a lot more resistance from those who care about me. I also know that for me, a very goal-oriented person, there was a need for something tangible to hold onto while I dove into the unknown. I guess we all need our safety nets (whether perceived or real) from time to time.
Ironically, I now live a mere three blocks from the school which I once hoped to attend. I pass by it often but only sometimes giving it a second glance. Its relevance in my life is monumental yet hardly worth consideration. I find it so amazing that time has a unique ability to show us how translucent our dreams can be while still leading us home.
