I’ve gotten very good at telling myself I’m not a writer. I sit on the couch feeling numb thinking about how I should be studying for PHYS 301, staring at a dusty copy The Art of Dramatic Writing by Lajos Egri, held open to the third page by a coaster, wishing I could just write.
But I tell myself I’m not a writer.
I have never finished a personal writing project. I’ve started two novels which sit stranded deep in old folders for a “someday” that feels like it’ll never come.
Real writers wake up at 4 a.m. every day to abate the need to get their words out, while I write for a few days, then leave a project untouched for months.
A few months ago, I started writing a TV show. I was really excited about this idea for a heist show and pulled something together over the course of a weekend. It was the first time in a while I’ve felt like a writer. Like I could write. I sent the script to everyone who would read it every time I made the smallest change, even going through it line by line with my big shot writer aunt. But I haven’t touched it since then.
I told myself I needed to focus on studying for this exam and my work, and though that feels true, I haven’t been able to. By the time I give up trying to will myself into working and let myself sleep, I hear birds chirping.
I don’t know if I’m actually passionate about computer science. Getting rejected by all the tech companies I applied to was definitely demoralizing, and working on research just slightly above my ability this summer hasn’t made things easier, but lately I haven’t felt motivation for anything other than writing and reading.
Yet I don’t let myself.
If I give into the temptation to write and read, I know it’ll be all I do. And while I think I’d rather write than code, I can’t get past the persistent belief that the risk is too great. If I continue studying computer science, I’ll land a high enough paying job to not have to worry about anything. If I write, I can only hope to afford rent. It’s been motivation enough to avoid writing in the past.
I never saw a realistic future as a writer, so it was easy to think of it as a forever unimportant hobby. But my brother has turned his art into a viable career, and I’ve begun working as The Ubyssey’s humour editor, so what seemed impossible is now almost achievable. Writing still sometimes feels like a waste of time, but not writing means not developing my skills — if I want to be a writer, I have to write.
So why am I studying computer science and physics?
I’ve started to actively dislike physics, and while I like computer science, it definitely doesn’t feel anywhere near as interesting to me as anything I've written. I feel locked in by my past decisions. I’m on the third loop-de-loop of a rollercoaster looking at the twists ahead wishing I could just bail while simultaneously thinking that stepping on was the “right” decision. It would be stupid to quit now, I say to myself.
I don’t know if that’s true or not. It doesn’t make sense to drop out, and I don’t think I could with all of my current responsibilities, but the thought refuses to fade.
I’m good at picturing myself as a writer: at my desk sitting over my computer hit from the side with the dim light of an overcast day responsible only to my keyboard dreaming a world onto a page. It’s possible.
But how could I give up the promise of a good paycheque, comfort, the commendation of self and family for following through just for something ephemeral?
I’ve gotten very good at telling myself I’m not a writer. But as words pour onto empty pages, they begin to fill the holes of doubt.
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