I always wanted to be a writer

Part of me has been in denial most of my life of a simple truth. I always wanted to be a writer. I upheld the notion that writing is an art that will never go out of style, where you can combine words to illustrate the thoughts, stories, and worlds spilling from my brain but still allow someone else to imagine them. To maneuver words beautifully and be able to combine them differently. The privilege of a unique voice, my own. The voice that I never knew I had. The voice I was terrified to use centuries ago.

As I think about my writing from prior decades, I conclude that much has changed. I started with a pencil or a pen. Then came the typewriter. The multiple drafts by hand would ensure that once I started typing, the only mistakes came from my fingers and were not a result of my creations. If I had Wite-Out – dispensed with a brush, similar to the nail polish method, I’d leave a smear on the paper. That spot, once dry, could host the correct letter or word. Time trickled slower back then. I am unsure if it resulted from my younger age or because the speedy technology we take for granted today didn’t exist.

I bypassed the electric typewriter. Later came the computer, massive machines with much smoother keyboards that would seem extra clunky today. I could easily see the computers morph as if I had a fast-forward button. The technology advanced to create better systems, more innovative, faster, to do more. Then came mini keyboards on Palm readers (I never got one of those), but I was genuinely fond of my Blackberry cell phone with its mini keyboard. The laptops, super heavy back then, turned me into a nomad or a turtle, where I could house all my writing in little folders the size of my nail.

One consequence of the technology was the decline of my handwriting. I once had legible, rounded, nearly perfect handwriting with supple curves, and even if I tried today to emulate it for a grocery list, I’d fail miserably. Now, it’s my notebooks where I occasionally have trouble deciphering my creations or my laptop. Speaking of notebooks, I think I may live forever because whenever I pop into a TJMAXX or Marshalls, I will spot a beautifully lined notebook with colorful print covers and buy it. Now, I have a hefty collection of all sizes waiting for their pages to be pregnant with my words. Wishful thinking!

Enter the iPhone… You can tell Siri to write down your stuff. Or just quickly type something up, even if it’s a poem or some thought. My Notes are full of little thoughts and tribulations, where I hit the microphone and dictate. Of course, I always include punctuation. Some things make life easier, and some change how you do things.

My MacBook Pro is my daily companion. As I browsed my writing folders, which hopped from computer to computer, imagine my surprise when I discovered an entire book—another collection of prose and poetry—ready to be published. It has been hiding for eleven years, waiting for me to do something with it—or not. But if not me, who?

My self-proclaimed writer title is ironic. I write daily, but not the creative writing that I prefer. My work is technical, translation, emails, reports, and notes. I always envied my friend Jim, poet extraordinaire who carries index cards in his shirt pocket and jots down verses every single day. If I had done that, I bet I would have used up all those notebooks collecting dust in my cupboards.