Three Truths That Made Me a Writer

Freelance professional writer. What a fine career title. One your mom will love dropping into conversations with her friends. A perfect response to: “So, what do you do?” at the high school reunion or in a dimly lit bar.

I have a problem though. I’m not a superlative writer. Or even a good writer. I know this because I read good writers- Chuck Palahniuk, Michael Crichton, James Patterson…

What I am is an adequate writer. This unfortunate fact has caused me some real angst and trepidation. My writing is like a leper running a marathon- painful and slow with parts left along the side of the road. Who am I to think I can take on the title of writer?

The first truth- They need you

Take a look around. We are surrounded by writing of all sorts. Product labels, instruction inserts, ads of all sorts, letters, and disclaimers- it goes on and on. The amount of practical writing out in the wild far exceeds the amount of artistic writing. Someone wrote this stuff. I can write this stuff too. What surprised me is that many people cannot. For whatever reason, the gods didn’t give them the ability to string nouns, verbs and objects together into readable prose. But that’s a fine thing. They need me. They need you.

The second truth- adequate is good enough

My first posted article was about how to install asphalt shingles. It dragged. ‘Bland’ isn’t quite bland enough a word to describe it. If pedantic and prosaic got married and had a child, my article would be that kid. I posted it anyhow. And people read it. Lots of people read it. They read it not because it was entertaining or enlightening, but because it told them the basics of how to put up shingles. Apparently, people want to know about shingles. Adequate is good enough.

The third truth- I am what I do

My day job, the title I am trading in for freelance writer, is tow truck driver. The first time I put on that hat and climbed into the truck, I had no experience. None. I didn’t even know how to jump-start a car. A week into the job, I was called out by the police to an accident at a senior citizen’s center. I arrived to find a car sticking out of the side of the building.

A sweet old lady had backed out of her parking spot, bumped into the car across the aisle and then panicked. She shifted into drive, tromped on the gas and drove full speed forward- through the spot she had just left and over a snow bank. The snow bank acted like a ramp, and the car flew about 10 feet and through the plate glass window of the senior center’s dining hall.

When I pulled up, she was there, concerned about her car. The center’s manager was there, worried about the building. The cops were there; the firemen were there; 25 or so seniors were standing around, just gawking. And now I was there with everyone else looking at me- the expert. No one asked how long I had been a tower. No one questioned my abilities or knowledge. We are what we do.

Ask me what I do now and I’ll tell you. I’m a freelance professional writer. He, he.