The Chance Chatter of Chameleons

Write, write, write. My gut, my brain keeps telling me to put my thoughts on paper. This is how it has been my entire life. I’m not a great writer, I am an honest writer. Putting my thoughts on paper somehow puts my mind at ease and stops the words that race around in my busy brain. I often read my words and criticize my technique, my choice of words, my thought patterns. Why would anyone want to read them, why would anyone care? Do people think I’m dumb or worse do they think I’m crazy? Maybe. Maybe people think all those things, maybe they don’t care, maybe they won’t want to read them. What if they do? What then? What if on the third Thursday of the thirteenth month when the moon and the sun are on the opposite side of Mars and purple hippo unicorns fly across the morning sky someone reads my words and says “shit, I get that! That means I’m not alone!” If that happens, then I made a difference.

Growing up I always dreamed of writing, I wrote poems, essay’s, dark stories, on every scrap of paper I could get my hands on. I wrote during class on the brown paper bag book covers of my schoolbooks (yes I am that freaking old), instead of paying attention to class. I wanted to be a newspaper reporter. I wanted to write children’s books, I just wanted to write. No one fostered this, I was encouraged however, to get my M.R.S. In case you need that translated: M.R.S equals Mrs. (married). Get married, have a family. I didn’t want either. I wanted to escape the place I came from, the inevitable drudgery of what would come if I stayed. So, I left. I stopped writing. I grew up and got a job, a husband (the first of three). I gave up dreaming (bad marriages will do that to you).

During my grown up phase,  I happened into a professional field where writing became essential. I felt good. It was professional writing, formal, but it made me happy to write again, even if it wasn’t the idyllic, romanticized dream I had of writing. I moved around, supporting different managers, different companies, until I stopped for awhile at a company where a manager( I will refer to as Dickhead Dave) crushed all confidence, I had in my ability to write. I remember sitting in his office while he was giving me my yearly review and he said to me “you can’t write, you will never be successful in this field because writing is a skill that can’t be taught.” I have been afraid to share what I write at work, or on a personal level ever since. That moment was when my communication became very much like my friend the chameleon.

Despite Dickhead Dave, despite his confidence crushing leadership style, I have become successful in my field. This success didn’t come without anxiety, overthinking, overreacting, and being generally overly defensive. I try harder and worry more than most of my peers (at least from my view of the room I think I do). This success has reignited my dream to write. I need to write, good pieces, bad pieces, mediocre pieces. I NEED to get it out.

Dreams are good, even if the journey back to them is long and painful. Don’t let the Dickhead Dave’s of the world steal your dreams.