(I'm quoting him because everyone wants to be Indiana Jones.)
I think it might be true that I'm a writer. Maybe. I know I'd like to be one. I'd like to spin tales of loveliness, of beauty, of transformation and growth. I'd like to heal the planet, heal nations, heal arguments between brothers and, maybe, just heal one. Maybe I could be that one.
I look at bloggers and micro-bloggers and see the impact that they have. I look at the lasting legacy of Shakespeare or The Beatles' Lennon and McCartney, Philip K. Dick or even Stephen King. I see how all of these writers make people feel. Some of them make you feel better, some inspired, some afraid of what trouble the world can get into, but they all make us curious. We all turn the page, scroll the screen, or listen for the next note and the lilted word doesn't disappoint.
I have a flair for the dramatic. My stories are all tall tales. The fish was this big and I walked up hill going both ways. But am I a writer? An author? Can my words make it to paper?
And if I say yes? Yes, in truth I am a writer. How do I take that truth, that essence, and turn it into fact, into my reality? The easiest answer is to say: “Write.” Have a thought: write it down. String some thoughts together and there you go. I guess some writers are like that but it has never been like that for me.
What is my higher self? What is it telling me to do? Is it to slim down or stay fat? Is it to be controlling or like Shaggy on Scooby Doo and go with the flow?
Wait. I think I got off point here. Or did I? My higher self isn't a procrastinating asshole, is it? My higher self is a thin, beautiful (young) writer who eschews the hum-drum path most followed and goes her own way never once asking for love or reassurance that she does matter.
Let’s take it back to Indy. He came, he helped, he kicked ass and then went back to his life and taught. Not every day was running away from boulders and tribesmen who steal hearts (literally) and Nazis that melt or finance biblical antiquity scavenger hunts. He was a professor. He probably had to write some excellent findings to keep his job, you know “publish or perish.” But he balanced it all. Except he couldn’t seem to keep a relationship going: he had no kids, no wife. He probably had a housekeeper (his house looked neat and orderly). You know it really was unfair that in the fourth one (I like them ALL!!), that Marion had to deal with the entirety of raising a child and making an instant family for Indy when he was ready. Maybe his higher self is the asshole. Sorry Feminist reading there. (I really think I’ve taken the path less travelled with this logic.)
BUT. His life (while fictional) was fact. He didn’t spend it searching for truth – he sought the verifiable i.e. fact. He didn’t think about it, he did it.
My life (while fact) is fictional. I am many, many things but none of them real. I have to learn to transform my thoughts into actions and my actions into being. And by being, I will make my reality. I want to be verified and verifiable. I want to be living deliberately, letting my higher self lead the way down a path that will blossom into a path of authenticity, truth and validity. And action. Otherwise, none of these things will happen. I need to start.
I want to be a professor of medieval literature. I want to be a novelist.
I want to be a weekend flautist. I want to be a potter. I want to be a painter. I want to be an architect (and I want to go to Northwestern).*