Tough Questions

I remember the first time I knew I wanted to write. Every kid makes little books with a stack of papers and a stapler, tells their silly little stories for mom and dad. I mean, I really knew I wanted to be a writer. It was the winter I was seven, reading a kid's version of Little Women. Reading about Jo March seemed like reading a description of myself: wild, tomboy, constantly talking, constantly fiddling, avid reader, storyteller, dramatic. And that's when it started with the words, noticing them, making them center stage in my days. Why wasn't it enough just to enjoy the literature of the world, to make time every day to kick back, crack open a book, and let the words wash over me like bubbles? Why isn't it ever enough just to listen to stories, picture them in my head, laugh at would-be situations and characters, have thoughts that may or may not be meaningful to someone else, and let it lie? Why isn't it enough to leave the writing for Pulitzer Prize hopefuls and rebellious memoirists and dead authors who lived and breathed literature? Why should I ever think I'm worthy enough to do the same?

I remember the first time I knew I wanted to be an artist. Every little kid doodles, draws, paints with finger paints, makes masterpieces for the fridge. We studied Van Gogh's Starry Night in second grade. We were supposed to move onto the next page, the next work, but I was stuck staring. Why wasn't it enough just to hang art, look at art, talk about art, live art? Why couldn't I just transport myself through the colors into the scene itself? Why would I attempt to shelf myself with Van Goghs, Monets, Picassos, Waterhouses, Raphaels, Pollacks--others who have far more fantastic worlds than I do? Why do I feel it a matter of life and death to use my own fingers, my skin, to rub a world onto a piece of paper? Why do I have to become the art itself?

I don't remember the first time I wanted to a be a musician... I feel like I was born understanding music. It's possible, right? But I ask the same questions every day. Why can't I just crank up other peoples' music and sing it, perform at karaoke bars, and call that enough? Even beginning to attempt to make a career out of writing your own music is such a tiring process--make sure you look the part, act the part, sound the part, dress the part, and if someone out there is already singing like you, forget it, you're done. Why would I ever think I could do it? Why not just wear out my iPod?

This is why I'm so tired all the time. I've got things to do, places to write. Why do all of this ?
It's not for other people. It's not for Finley, much as I love her. It's not even completely for myself, or for some cosmic quest to empty my mind and heart with all my stories. That's way too Stephenie Meyer for me.
I do it...
...Because it's there.