The Problem Of Being a Writer

Good stories find me. Scratch that, extraordinary people cross my path every day. The hard part is concealing identities to protect their privacy, especially of those so close to me that they shape my destiny. Whatever they do or say affects my life in irreparable ways; it is a shame that sharing my story is akin to calling them out. For their sake I have to keep things on the DL (down low).

You can make a lot of indirect enemies even when you write from an anonymous pen name. Those who talk to you wonder if they are going to become the subject for your next post. The real juicy stuff, the unique points of view or perspectives are too controversial to handle with white gloves in under 1,000 words. Someone always takes offense or decides that you are just doing the storytelling for attention. For the writer, unloading these stories is a form of therapy, a sanity check of cathartic proportions. The pen is mightier than the sword; the paper in can hold more weight than the strongest steel.

As the incredible events compound and keep occurring, writers will have to continue to grin and bear the responsibility of reporting on the life that art imitates. Historians are our last line of defense to protect and unearth the truth, getting us as close to it as subjectivity allows. At some point people will realize that there is more good in documenting adulting mishaps and gut wrenching, heart breaking events, and not just posting feel good stories and lots of happy pictures. The true joy of being alive is in the ups and downs of the journey, the peaks and valleys that we encounter as we push to reach new heights. Hopefully time prove us right, in all the languages of the world.

Or else the road ahead will be lonely and unforgiving…

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