Meth: a Ticking Timebomb Gone Viral

The Storyteller Who Dreamed of Becoming a Writer

A writer I am not...but, oh, I wish I was.

Tonight, whilst searching through all the shit on the box, I chanced upon a documentary about Ernest Hemmingway. Of course, I know WHO he was, but I have never read a word written by this modern-day literary giant. I am ashamed to say that...and it gets worse. Never read Tolstoy...Bokowski, Fitzgerald or anyone who I am led to believe I should have.

As a child, I did read...Asimov, Clarke, Benchley and Blatty. I thank my father for his voracious appetite for fiction, which gave me a foothold in how to tell a good story. But a good storyteller is not by right of passage, a good writer...or at least, I don't think that is so. And, to be perfectly honest, I don't even know what does.

At this moment in time, I have stopped wondering/dreaming if I will ever write something memorable, worthy or even good. And the idea of me writing anything longer than a short story or blog post leaves me feeling mystified...or is that mystery feeling malaise masquerading as perplexity. In the very short period I have been expressing myself through the medium of words, I have found it to be an exhilaratingly disappointing time.

I will lie to myself that it doesn't matter when something I put my heart and soul into is ignored. Or worse still...gets some notice...and then, all it invokes is silence. No applause...no adulation, just acquiescence and self-doubt.

I am not a writer...but all is not lost because at least, I am a storyteller. If I had lived ten thousand years ago, I might have been recognised or even revered. But now I tap away with my denial and hope, which fades into the reality that I will never be anything more.