More and more since returning to school last Monday, I fancy myself a writer.
Why “I fancy myself a writer”? Why not simply, “I am a writer”? I chose the words I did because there’s a great deal of hubris required to call oneself a writer when one writes as little as I do. More than the average person, perhaps, but not nearly “enough” to be a writer, if indeed there is such a thing. Still, I have this idealized picture of myself in my mind, a version of me indefinably but perceptibly superior. I see Writer Dave, and he looks as I do now, but there’s a certain confidence about him that I lack, a certain wisdom, a certain peace, and a good deal more depth of thought and action. He’s less rash, and perhaps less jovial, but wittier to make up for it. He has read infinitely more than I have, and written a great deal more, as well. His insight boggles the mind, as does his empathy. He is able to read people and help them to feel more comfortable with themselves, more confident, happier… more like him. He understands them, and they trust him. He’s never out-of-place, out of his element, stuck for something (the right thing) to say. He approaches learning opportunities with a tempered enthusiasm. He talks to people just to learn about them, hear a fresh voice, a new perspective, get a window into a different life. He’s also a linguist, and a translator, and can talk to many people in their native tongues (Spanish and a couple of dialects of Chinese top his list of known languages). He observes, as I do, but his perception runs deeper. He is educated in many fields, and can converse intelligently on many topics. He’s been published. Perhaps poetry, perhaps fiction, perhaps technical writing, DEFINITELY non-technical writing. He has an aura of contentment without arrogant self-satisfacton. He knows love not as a casual acquaintance but as a life-long friend and ally. He is, ultimately, who I want to be. Who I *thought* I would be.
I fancy myself a writer.