One of the accusations I most treasure is this one: "You are arrogant!"
Because usually, it means one has spoken sense.
All my life, I have admired The Greats. Why? Because they did not fancy themselves special in any way. They did not focus on the future acclaim they would (but had not yet) earned. For the most part, those writers, thinkers, philosophers, and artists who most completely changed the scope and depth of reality as we know it...did so out of the simple need to record all that echoed in and around them. And it is they I hope to in some way emulate.
Anyone can write or paint. Anyone can act, sing, dance, construct and design. Many will make a great deal of money from it for no other reason than that they are willing to do whatever it takes, whatever is asked of them in order to attain notoriety or commercial success. Perhaps that is enough for them. Maybe that should be enough for anyone.
Yet, I want more.
For myself and those who have true talent, I hunger for more.
In every discipline, in every area of life, there are those who have some fire burning within them--something far beyond themselves--which demands to be stoked, often whether they like it or not. For some, it is as simple as the drive to build sleek, functional structures that, although not flamboyant, will stand the ages. For others, the need to create from cloth and patterns the shapes and forms which will define an era can and will never be sated. I suppose, for many of us out there, we were born with some tiny, snarling demon inside determined to be set free. And those who do not have it do not understand its demands.
That, strangely enough, has never bothered me.
I would rather be the woman who never reaches that moment in life in which she feels worthy to call herself a writer than those who add to the thousands of worthless volumes which clutter the libraries.
Maybe I will never be A Writer.
Yes, my written words fill the pages of many a thesis and dissertation by academic powerhouses who lacked the love for or even the interest in the written word necessary to bring their ideas to life. And, maybe that should mean something to me. Perhaps it would mean a great deal to others.
But in my mind.
I will not be a writer until I have penned that which no one else could have conceived or written. Do I have it in me to achieve the goal? I would like to think so. One would like to think that her own insistent demon exists for that very purpose. Further, I would like to believe that had I not been somehow gifted with the capacity to reach that objective, the little devil never would have been entrusted to me in the first place. The truth of the matter is, even if I do somehow manage to take all that I am, all that I have learned, all that I am capable of being and somehow weave from those elements the one great work of a lifetime, I would probably not recognize it for what it truly was, even if it jumped up and bit me on the butt.
For me, it is just enough to know that the mere possibility exists, just as it has for others before me, for others who will live long after I am forgotten, and even a few magnificent souls who have wondered onto my pathway just long enough for me to play a small part in helping them accomplish what I have not--possibly will not.
If that constitutes arrogance,
"'Play on Macbreath'"!
Keep writing ya"ll!