Why I don't write.

Originally written April 2003.

Let me tell you why I don’t write. The yellow folder is to blame. It is symbolic of my ambition and failure to put pen to paper. I’ve had the yellow folder for three years. How I came to acquire it clarifies how it has held me back.

Since childhood I’ve loved to read. Enchantment with reading accompanied me past my graduation from high school and into my new life away from home. Until then I hadn’t considered writing an option. It was what authors did, not ordinary people like me. I had never thought otherwise until I met my friend F. He wrote not only as required for his major in English, but for sheer enjoyment. He kept copies in his computer of everything he wrote. His files contained not only compulsory compositions for his degree. They also held thought provoking essays, published letters to the editor of the local paper in defense of his views, short stories of various topics, and more. I was both fascinated and jealous of his scholarly talent.

I so enjoyed his writing style that I would often visit him and read his latest efforts. One particular night I read over his shoulder. His computer screen emitted a soft glow through the dim lighting of his basement bedroom. The room was too chilly for my liking but it was worth my discomfort since I was entranced by his skill and had to read on. As I finished his essay I was struck with the desire to understand what it meant to be a writer. Why did he write? Why did anyone write, for that matter? I was certain that if I could pour over his words at my leisure I would come to know not only why others wrote, but how I might learn to as well. Would he mind if I had copies of some of his work? Flattered, he started up his printer and soon the collection was mine. He handed me a folder for safe-keeping.

The folder was made of rutted, uneven yellow paper the texture of leather. Within lay two pockets, one on each side. They were bulging with ordinary sheets of white paper. Upon the pages were written compositions that, I felt, were anything but ordinary. I’ve read and reread the contents of the yellow folder, endeavoring to transcend my perceived mediocrity. I hoped that it would be my key to unlocking the secrets of superior writing. Instead of finding answers, I’ve ended up comparing myself to its author and to writers in general. I have no degree in English, no published works to my name. All I have are words that dance in my thoughts. They form phrases, sparked by everyday moments. These fragments are imaginary literary achievements; they are books that I’ve never written.

The words in my head are constant, yet constantly I deny them formation into existence. They flit about my mind like butterflies, so hard to catch. Do I dare to seize the words? Do I dare to write them down? This course of action seems so daunting. I fear I am not up to the challenge. The yellow folder proves my inadequacy. Its contents are my evidence that words can be caught and pinned down. It is a stinging reminder of all that I have not done. Even though I own it, it does not truly belong to me. It is a testament of those who are able to grasp words and hold them together in print, unashamed.

I cannot continue to be afraid to try. For this reason, I am using writing to explain why I don’t write. If this method manages to render the topic invalid, then perhaps this is a promising beginning. As I catch my thoughts and hold them down just long enough to fasten them to paper, I am freeing myself of my need for the yellow folder. I am no longer searching for excuses to fail. I am not holding back.