An Untitled Piece of My Thoughts

What can you say when there is no material in your life to write about? I've always wanted to write something but I can never think of anything that would be worth writing about. I suppose many an author would gaze patronizingly down their upturned noses--which are stuck in books they wrote themselves--that a true writer can write about anything. They WOULD make it about themselves. Sure, its not WHAT you write about, its about WHO writes it. I would, however, like to modify that statement and suggest that perhaps its not always WHO writes it, but HOW they write it.  This, in fact, is a concept I can appreciate, however much I fail to live up to such a standard. Because it is true, with a degree of talent a person can pen a masterpiece out of even the dullest and most seemingly insignificant parts of life--whether or not its their own life is besides the point. However, I also believe that great stories are inherently great, before the oh-so-mighty writer comes along and decides to put a title and an ownership on the specially-designed book cover. What is misleading is that, behind all the graphics, and the carefully chosen font on the brand new hardcover, is a story which existed before someone decided to put it into words that were violently pressed in permanent black ink onto the crisp pages of a still-unopened book.  And so, in lieu of that belief, I am consistently hesitant to begin writing anything--including this blog post. Because I honestly believe that there are millions of great stories out there, waiting to be found. Waiting to be heard. Waiting to be read. But first they must be written. However, with so much riding on the ability of the author himself, how can I expect to ever measure up to the story? When I sit down to write, I want to ensure that whatever is recorded on the paper, or in the computer, is the best it can possibly be, because I owe that to the story and to those who read it. With so much expectation and pressure (self-imposed or otherwise) it is a wonder I have written anything at all. Yet, here I find myself, crudely clunking down on the keypad, hoping that, somehow, my sorry excuse for an attempt at writing will be rewarded with some far semblance of a real, worthwhile piece of writing.  I know that this is not eloquent, nor fluid in its line of thought, but with my best regards to the reader, it is mine, and that will just have to be good enough for now.