The Writer I’ve Become by Kouros!950

Lietuvių: tipiška Palermo gatvė
Lietuvių: tipiška Palermo gatvė (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I recently I was asked to describe “The Writer I’ve become.”  I can’t really do this effectively largely because I’m still becoming a writer and this is “despite of “and not “because of” certain life experiences. I’m becoming a writer not because years of academia has afforded me this choice, or educational pursuits a precursor. Albeit my college years were formidable, I am becoming a writer despite of the societal and economic conditions of the “racially-war-torn years of the ‘60’s.”  I’m becoming a writer despite the urban blight, poverty, crime, drugs, and imprisonments that raped me of my youth and so forcefully shaped my future. I’m becoming a writer despite that no one cares if I can or should. I’m becoming a writer because I’ve been a pauper, a father-a son, a poet-a brotha, a husband, a gangster—a businessman—why not become a writer. I’m becoming a writer because I can, because I want to. I’m becoming a writer because if I don’t–all my tomorrows will look just like my yesterdays. Therefore I write.  It serves as a cathartic precursor to suicide; as a monument to will power, as a testament to desire—as a statement of fortitude. I’m becoming a writer so I can hide my despair, calm my fears, and digest the puke that so often bubbles in my stomach from time to time into the characters or protagonists that I create. So I can remember my past experiences in scenes,  in stages, and when the final curtain calls, not pay the price that iniquity demands. I write so I can create a romance between a beautiful woman and an invisible man. I’m becoming a writer because I’ve heard that I can be paid a fool’s ransom to write about this pain, about this ugly—about this surreal vomit I call a life –and all from an anonymous a.k.a. I’m becoming a writer because something draws me to it with “tracking beam” like precision. I imagine myself a writer even though I never written anything—of noteworthiness.  I think of myself as a writer because others (my peers) have asked me to do so.  They have suggested some short-cuts to take to this end despite of what they have described as a “lack of clarity, or command of the subject; and the propensity for the superfluous; some have even suggested that I build a “model” of my subject and main points using something called: BEAM, to help me be more effective. So in view of these assessments, I have decided to stay the course, sharpen my resolve, erase my fears, and be rhetorical about it: What else I’m doing? I’m in the autumn of my years–so why not put this, also, on my bucked list—I have always done whatever I wanted to do in the past anyway, why stop now? Even now, I recognize my short comings as an aspiring writer, because I was asked to describe the writer I’ve become; and I haven’t, wouldn’t, or couldn’t even do that as some will no doubt, suggest. But I have an answer for any criticisms from this quarter—I’m becoming a writer. I haven’t become a writer yet. For me writing is an evolutionary process filled with corrections, revisions, and certifications of accomplishments with cited publications that argue, support, oppose any and all conversations about whether  “ I’m Becoming or Have Become A Writer.“ In concluding, whoever the “writer” I have become is, I don’t really know him. I just met the “writer “ I’m becoming. I haven’t met the writer I’ve become yet because he lives in tomorrow’s efforts, in my future compositions and rhetorical appeals. He hasn’t chosen to introduce himself to me yet, why I don’t know but if you should see him in some future pages of mine, tell him that I’m looking for him—really.

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