I suppose that I have dreamed of being a writer from the time I was a child.  I worked on the school newspaper when I was in high school and vied for job of editor in chief but that was not meant to be. The adult sponsor chose me to be the news editor which seemed to be a rather dull assignment. After assessing whether or not the five Ws of Who, What, Where, When, Why had been properly addressed my biggest job was checking the spelling and grammar and making certain that the articles would fit on the front page. I longed to work on the literary page and I was admittedly envious of the sports editor who seemed to enjoy the most readers of his exciting and hilarious stories. Still, I imagined that our faculty leader had made a mistake and that one day she would see that I was born to write the great American novel. 

I went on to college where I majored in English and minored in math. My professors liked my work but none of it was particularly creative. My main goal was to critique the writing of others or explain the proper way of using the English language. I wrote descriptions of the incredible movements of two of the members of our basketball team that received rave reviews from the professor. I recorded and discussed the oral history from my grandfather and the teacher was over the moon. None of those things were particularly original Nothing demonstrated that I had a unique way of stringing words together. I could see that my best talent involved telling true stories about people that I knew or had taken the time to observe. Like my grandfather I was pretty darn good at describing the folksy aspects of life. I soon realized that perhaps the sponsor of the high school newspaper had been on to something. I was not a creative writer, I was simply a kind of chronicler of what I saw. 

I suppose that there is nothing wrong with the fact that I can’t write the next great American novel since I am able to communicate rather well but my prose stills feel so pedestrian, especially when I see a friend developing into a stunning author. There is such a difference in the way I post words together and the unique ways that he takes those same syllables and weaves a lively tale. 

My high school English teacher often said that we did not all need to become prize winning authors. He felt that there was something rather special in being an appreciator of good writing, a person of good taste. When he chose me to grade the weekly essays of some of his students he urged me to direct them to greater heights than they may otherwise have risen. He said that being a developer of talent was an incredible skill that not everyone has. I suppose that is why I ended up teaching for a living rather than banging away on a typewriter building beautiful dreams from words. 

The funny thing is that almost everywhere that I taught I was commandeered to write the news bulletin for parents. I threw myself into that task knowing that my job was to report just the facts. I soon learned from feedback that many of the parents thought that I was being bit uppity with my vocabulary which I thought was rather dull. I had to rethink how to compose my blurbs so that they would be understandable to anyone who read them. That meant no long winded sentences, only those that got straight to the point. 

I suppose that I still dream of being discovered as a writer. I get my best reviews when I describe someone that I have known and admired. I no longer even try to enter the field of fiction. Instead I am satisfied to write about real people and real topics that interest me. I have accepted the reality that I am one of the world’s greatest appreciators and encouragers because many a student, relative or friend has taken my advice to keep writing because something was really special about the stories that they told. I’m no longer a bit jealous of their ability like I once might have been. Instead I celebrate the fact that I know enough to be discover real talent and sometimes even guide someone who struggled at first to let their minds take them to wondrous places about which we would all enjoy reading.

I write and write and write and write. My hobby is no longer aimed at being discovered. Now I do it daily as a way to relax during times when I am feeling anxious about the state of the world. There is something soothing and perhaps a bit selfish about writing down and sharing one’s thoughts. There is a certain audacity in thinking that what I have to say is important enough that others might actually care about the words and sentences and paragraphs that I put down on paper. I often wonder if mine is a vanity project or something worthwhile. 

I’ve read about other writers and the struggles that they often endured. I remember seeing that F. Scott Fitzgerald nearly went mad attempting to recreate the genius of The Great Gatsby. Some people like Stephen King seem to have endless ideas. Others create that one incredible piece and are never able again to reach the heights of literary glory. Nonetheless it seems to me that there is some kind of gene that literally forces those of us with the writing bug to keep plugging away no matter how far from perfection we fall. 

I am the great appreciator and encourager. My skill has inspired many a soul. Maybe in the long run of things that is a rather incredible way to be. Do I dare use the word, Muse?