I Don’t Know What This Thing Is

I don't know what this thing is—this little website, my "space" on the internet. I know what I wanted it to be. And honestly, it doesn't really matter. I don't need to unpack all of that here. But like anyone who writes, I wanted my website to be the voice of an entire generation or something. That is if, for an entire generation, I'm the voice of the fifty-something, dog-owning, coffee-drinking Seattleite. That's a narrow group to be the voice of.

I’ve been writing in some form or another for over forty years. As you do the math in your head, I’ll help: I started writing when I was eight. I fell in love with the idea of creating stories. Story has always been important to me. It’s an escape, and there’s no mystery in that. For most people, it’s an escape. But when I look at what I’ve written in my lifetime, I begin to scratch at this thing I haven’t been willing to admit. And that thing is, “What am I trying to say?” The answer is: I don’t know. To admit that here feels pathetic.

About four years ago, I finished my first manuscript. I paid an independent editor to do a developmental edit to evaluate the direction I was going with my story. After she read the book, we had a Zoom call to discuss her eleven-page developmental edit and recommendations. She started the call by telling me, “You’re a good writer.” I appreciated that and could feel a rise of pride in my chest. The next thing she did was ask me, “Why would I read this book?”

I wasn’t prepared for that question. As I began to stumble through my words, trying to find an eloquent response, I could hear a voice in my brain say, “I have no idea. Why did I write this?” I told my editor, Linda, that the manuscript was about a boy and his dog. What she said next has been my struggle for the last four years. She said, “That’s not what this book is about. That’s not the manuscript I read.”

Dammit.

Four years later, where does that leave me? The manuscript is sitting on a shelf next to me. I’ve picked away at Linda’s suggestions but haven’t done anything significant with the manuscript because I’m asking myself the same question, “Why would I, or anyone, read that book?”

This brings me to my point: why did I make this website? Before Linda’s question, I thought of the website as a place to post short stories. The website would establish me as a writer and prime an audience for my manuscript once it was published. That didn’t work out because I’m having an existential crisis.

Last April, I started going to therapy. It doesn't matter why. I guess I could say that I'm fifty-one, almost fifty-two, and I'm trying to understand who I am with the help of a guide. A few months into therapy, my therapist, who I will call Morgan, asked me, "Who are you? What do you stand for?" I didn’t know how to answer Morgan’s question.

In many ways, Morgan was asking me the same question Linda did. I thought about who I am, what effect that has on my decision-making, and ultimately, how that affects my writing; I don’t know what to write because I don’t know who I am. My writing reflects who I am, and if I don’t know who I am, then I don’t know what to write. If my writing doesn’t reflect me, then I’m just writing, and that’s not very interesting. I no longer want to do something that feels empty.

In April 2025, I will have been in therapy for a year. I started to realize more about myself recently, and that revelation helped me understand what I would write about. Above all else, it starts with honesty. Honesty isn't always fun, but it will help me feel real. Even now, I read what's on my website, and I don't recognize it as me. I don't see my true self in my words. That's not the art I want to create. I want to tell the truth, even if readers find it unpleasant.

In the last nine months, I've learned that I'm shedding that need to be liked. I don’t want my work to be neutral or careful to avoid controversy. I don’t think that’s art. If readers don't like what I say, they should move on and read something else. If they can't move on, that's their problem, not mine. I’m going to write about my inner self. I will tell stories about how hard it is to be a human. Understand me; I will also tell stories about things I love, but the truth will always be there.

If I can't be honest, I don't know why I'm doing this—all of this—at all. I want to take this writing seriously, but it must be on my terms. Morgan advised, “When it comes to who you are, how you feel, or what you want to do, you get to name it. The more real you are with yourself, the freer you will feel, but it starts with your truth.”