My heart doesn’t always have the capacity to communicate words in the way I’d like to communicate them. It doesn’t matter what the words are, really. They can be about sports, about life, about culture, about something funny, about an experience, about a moment. The words are there, in my head, and I can sense them, but the desire to convey them, to share them with the world, that doesn’t always align.
It is never easy to do the things that you truly love. And there’s a reason for that. When you truly love something, you give it your all. You don’t cut corners on the things you love. You put your entire being into the things you love. You sacrifice for the things you love. You place the things you love on a pedestal above your own self. The things you love, they are what define you, they are your legacy.
We can only love so many things in our lives. There is only so much time in the day, so much time in our very existence, so much time in any sense that you’d measure it, to give ourselves to these things. So, not everybody has the ability or the opportunity to love something. Those who do are fortunate. I’m fortunate.
I write not because I have to, but because I want to. I write because my heart tells me it needs a release. I didn’t realize when I was younger that this was the case. I just thought it was a hobby, something I liked to do from time to time. I thought writing would come to pass. I thought it might just be a phase, like the phases I had with musical instruments, or video games, or other outlets for my energy. I didn’t realize that it would follow me wherever I went, that it would consume me, that it would be my traveling companion wherever life happened to take me. The thing about writing, it is always available. You don’t need much to write. Just the willingness and a means to transcribe.
I often close my eyes and feel a keyboard beneath my fingertips and channel thoughts and think to myself, amidst it all, that this probably isn’t how everyone else does it. I whisper the things that I write as I write them. Sometimes my voice gets ahead of the prose. Sometimes I’ll go back and look at what I’ve written and realize I’ve left out entire sentences worth of thought, a result of my brain outpacing my motor skills. I just talk. I say the words that come to me and turn them into characters on a screen. I could do this all day if I wanted to I suppose, but again, it’s about desire.
There is a demand. There is an expectation. And unfortunately, I cannot always bend to demands and expectations. I’ll write things from time to time because I feel compelled to. Not because anyone else tells me I have to, but because I know in my own mind that it’s time, that it’s been too long since I’ve last said something. But I guarantee you if you ask anyone who writes for a living if everything they wrote came freely, as a result of their own desire, they’d tell you that wasn’t the case. There is always some demand to write. It just depends on who happens to be issuing those demands. I’m no different than anyone else in that regard. Except that I create my own schedule. That may be the one unique facet of my calendar compared to others’. I don’t acquiesce to the demands of a boss, a readership, a company, money, or anything else. The demands are my own.
I don’t do it the right way. I craft paragraphs all wrong. I end my pieces abruptly. I use whatever word most articulates the message in that moment, even if that word happens to come with a parental advisory. I don’t write about the things people always want to hear about. This, for example, this article, this is selfish, this is about me, this is about my life. I should be writing about the Huskies or the Seahawks or the Mariners or something like that but I can’t, I just can’t, and that’s frustrating. And it’s not that I’m incapable, it’s that I’m incredibly unwilling right now. Because I don’t care. My desire to romanticize the Husky Basketball team, or the signing of Marshawn Lynch, or the fast-approaching baseball season is not there. I wish it was, but it isn’t.
I understand the ramifications of everything I write. I don’t always care for those ramifications or heed them in any way, but I comprehend them. I know there are certain topics I can write about that will bring in ridiculous traffic. I know what it takes to get linked on the most prestigious pages on the internet. I don’t really care for that attention, though. Maybe I’m foolish to act that way, to think that my craft is above that if I want it to be. But when you love something, you don’t always act rationally in the heat of your passion. I love to write. Rationality died when I came to grips with that.
Why am I writing this? Because it’s been two weeks since I’ve written anything of substance and that demand I mentioned kicked in. I need to get back to writing. I’ve taken breaks from writing before, but never have I gone this long without releasing my words. Problem is, I don’t know where to begin. I’ve started and stopped so many articles in the last few days that I just needed to emote for a minute. This is the end result of that. It’s a holdover. It’s a pledge to you that I’ll be back with something that matters, that fits the bill of this website’s name, soon. I will. Because I know that desire will return. It always does. Sometimes it takes longer than other times, but it never fully goes away.
There is a prevalent belief in this world that when you love a craft, you should perform that craft as often as you possibly can to get the most out of it. I think that belief is garbage. When you love something, you cannot force it. Love is natural. It speaks to your soul and causes you to react, not the other way around. So because I love to write, and because I enjoy interacting with all of you who like what I love, I give you this placeholder for now and the promise of a return, hopefully sooner rather than later. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe a week from now, maybe longer. You can’t place a deadline on the heart, as it turns out.