I’m not a Writer.
I’ve never claimed to be a Writer and don’t like lying to people. Writers introduce people to worlds and ideas where I am limited to glimpses of scenes that don’t ever meet.
I’m more of a Jotter.
That kind of sounds dirty when you say it. It’s almost as if I am skanking up the real writer pool by even bothering to muddle up paper with tiny ideas that never go anywhere. I’m petrified and confused whenever anyone reads anything that ekes its way out of my mind.
After bouts of insecurity and self loathing, I read something written by someone who is acclaimed for reasons that seem like they can only be due to some form of devil worship in their favor. What passes for great literature just makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry sometimes.
So I decide to just keep jotting down random things until one day I can cut and paste together a decent work. In thinking everything I put down is crap, I guess that I am indirectly saying that it would fit right in with the works of some really rich folks who wouldn’t know character development if it shoved its hand up their backside.
I guess I’m a Jotter because I care too much.
I don’t want to just churn something out to make a buck. I want to weave an intriguing tale. I want the reader to see what the characters see. I want the audience to ride the emotional roller coaster with them, just hopefully not so upset that I get death threats when a character is offed or anything. The evil editor lives in this space.
It isn’t that the words aren’t good enough for me. I’ve seen the story already. Producing the pages that reflect the images of the narrative happens in spurts due to me trying to capture each moment perfectly for the reader.
I’m a Jotter working the snowball effect.