Late the other night, I sat at the bar
at Atticus and casually mentioned that my life's ambition was to
become a botanist. The conversation was about Warehouses and
Rusted Angels which will be my
third novel. I had just signed the contract. And I concluded it by
saying: “And I wanted to be a botanist.” It solicited a laugh for
some reason. I stared. Well, why didn't you?
Why? Because I became a writer instead.
I've
been thinking about what it means, the statement: I am a writer. What
does it mean? I guess I could say that I am a writer because I'm
writing right now. Perhaps I could say that a writer is not a real
writer until the first publication. I don't know. I still do not use
the words: I am a writer. Instead, I play it cool, I have written, I
am writing, I have a few novels published, a few screenplays out
there, even a few short stories. But a writer?
It's
been a solid 20 years since I left the idea of become a botanist
behind. I started to study literature in college 20 years ago. I have
not really looked back, despite not always looking forward. I've just
written and written more. Some years I'm prolific, some years I'm
distracted and some years I just want to do other things.
One
thing for sure.
Of all
the things I could have done, I could have stayed in the Army. I
could have continued with the Boy Scouts. I could have become a
banker, a small businessman or salesman. I could have stayed doing
all the things I have done in favor for a future and for money and
for paper security. But that's not what I did.
I
decided to say fuck all to all that. I just never saw much of a point
in doing something that took all my energy, all my thought and all my
life just to live a life that wasn't exactly what I wanted. I mean,
think of it like this: whatever the cost of something, there is an
opportunity cost, right, something you must give up in order to get
whatever it is you want. For me, I never wanted a new car because it
just never smelled that good to me. The price has always been too
high: more money equals more hours working which equals less time
writing, reading, or daydreaming. Incidentally, I feel like the day
to day existence is too much expense, and I don't have the life most
people have. If it came down to being able to write or anything else,
well, it's not a debate. The truth is, I have always understood
artists. All other pursuits have never made much sense to me.
The
only religious text that ever made sense to me is Walden.
Thoreau was a bit of a botanist too.
In the
still afternoons last winter, I sprawled out in the sun and read as
my son napped. My downstairs neighbors watch tv during these hours.
When I hear the invading sound of tv or even when I'm outside and see
the ghostly blue glow of a room where someone has turned off their
mind I wonder what their pursuits must have been. Perhaps they all
wanted to be botanists.
It
isn't easy. I hasn't been easy either. Writing is tedious. It's a
laborious process. It's filled with self doubt, with rejection and
with one page out of 100 being of any value. And when the neighbors
watch tv all day, I have to wonder what they think they're missing.
Spring
is here in the mile high city. The dead lawns are turning green. The
trees, from a distances at least, are become fuzzy with buds and
leaves. The days are getting longer, warm and the shadows are
shortening at midday. The winter is over. The plants know. Every day
it's a good time to watch the growth of plants because it's all
growing so fast. Spring is a good time for botany.
I
became a writer without intending it. I just started to write. And
for some reason I just didn't want to do anything else. I still
don't.
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