Hidden away in the most lonesome backwater of my darkest heart of hearts, I have always secretly fancied myself a writer.

But the cold, hard truth of the matter is that I am a writer who does not actually write.

Despite being a man of action, an eye on the prize, full steam ahead, let’s get some shit DONE kind of guy, a guy with “Actions speak louder than words.” tattooed on his very soul, I am all but paralyzed in the one area that matters to me most.

It’s not that I haven’t tried. I have files filled to bursting with my writing attempts over the decades. My failed writing attempts. Many drafts and random pages nestled in nooks and crammed in crannies. Sheets of paper with once lucid thoughts scrawled upon them, the connection to some grander vision lost to time. Long lists of story ideas and random bits of prose. Detailed character sketches and complicated plot devices. Scores of projects in various stages of completion but none, at least in the opinion of my much-hated internal critic, having enough merit to ever share with another, equally annoying human.

For the record, I think of this internal critic as my own personal mean girl. Her face frozen in a sneer, eye roll ever at the ready, she has something cruel and scathing to say about everyone. Her voice sounds remarkably like mine only mixed in, Coldstone style, is a big, bitchy double dollop of my sainted mother, Queen Marian of Snarkovia. We are not amused.

When I am at my very best, she is largely silent. When I am at my very worst, she reigns supreme. I strive to keep Her Majesty’s big yap shut on the daily.

So all of my writing thus far has either been relegated to half a dozen Pendaflex folders or locked away in the solitary confinement of my mind, never to see the light of day.

Despite these struggles with follow through and a complete lack of end result, I am also a process-oriented gearhead, so I still want the tools. Give me ALL the tools. I may never actually USE the tools, but I really, really WANT the tools just the same. So, I’ve purchased (note I did not say READ) countless manuals on the craft of writing and spent many thousands of dollars on computer hardware and software and creative writing courses and script doctoring lessons and empowerment seminars and accountability workshops and storytelling bootcamps…

But none of these valiant efforts have proven to be a sufficient call to action.

Don’t get me wrong. I have had amazing and inspiring teachers along the way, in a wide variety of forms, and the fault does not lie with ANY of them. I have come away from many of these endeavors, all fueled up and ready to kickstart my brilliant writing career, grip the throttle and rev it into high gear, only to eventually stall out yet again.

So, the problem is not to be found outside of myself. It is entirely contained within me, the little engine that couldn’t.

And it’s not about finding the right words. That’s not my issue. Never has been. In all of my recorded history, I have never found myself at a loss for words. My chronic condition is not the lack of words but an endless, punishing torrent of them. Pounding and filling my head to overflowing. Swirling round and round in a ceaseless flood, never giving me a chance to lift my head above the surface to catch a breath and choking me into silence.

Sure, I can string a few sentences together and call it good, sometimes very good, but never in any meaningful or lasting form. Interested in reading the leatherbound collection of My Greatest Emails? Well, I certainly am! Long after sending it, I will go back to a painstakingly crafted email, again and again, savoring its blissful perfection. Text messages too. Basking in the beauty of the turn of a phrase or smiling at the precisely timed wit, as if to say, “Gosh, aren’t I CLEVER?”.

Do you know anyone that opens a Word document to get the language in an email or text message juuuust right before copy/pasting it back into the conversation?

Yeah, me neither.

My award-winning email collection aside, if my dream is to write something pure and true and lasting, something slightly longer than a Hallmark card (and it is), then what’s holding me back? What in the H-E double hockey fucks am I waiting for?!

Perfection.

In a single word, I strive for perfection. Perfection in all things but mostly in the written word. There are few things more dreaded to me than returning to something I’ve slavishly cobbled together (again with the damned emails?!) only to discover a typo or repetitive phrasing, a lack of elegant variation being just as loathsome to me. I will worry this sharp-toothed stone until it gleams.

But the equally pernicious flipside of the perfection coin is paralysis. If I can’t make it perfectly, then I just won’t make it at all. And the ridged edge of that coin is perseveration. I’ll toss the creative impulse over and over, turning it round and round in my mind, making zero progress. It’s a perplexing problem that has plagued me for as long as I can remember. Seems we’ve got ourselves an alliterative trifecta here at Pimlico today, folks! Powering ‘round the final stretch, Perfection and Procrastination are neck and neck, with Perseveration jostling for prime position, but Paralysis takes it by a nose!

There are parallels in other areas of my life. I want everything to be tidy and arranged just so. I crave symmetry and order. Clean lines and crisp right angles are my jam. Give me smooth and even surfaces always. I love a flush and perfect join. I have rules for the processing and placement of everything. Every. Damned. Thing.

I will straighten pictures hanging crookedly, even if the walls they adorn do not happen to belong to me. This is particularly problematic when the offending frame is hung in a hotel room where they tend to be anchored in place.

Though I rarely have much cash in my wallet anymore, it is essential that all paper money face the same direction when I do, sorted by denomination from largest to smallest. This is the primary reason I was an early adopter of digital currency. I was happy to say farewell to those messy bills.

One of my very first jobs was working in an art supply store and the task I enjoyed more than just about any other was fronting shelves. Pulling all product forward into a neat line, like soldiers in dress uniform standing at attention, proved to be oddly soothing to me. To this very day, I sometimes find myself absentmindedly doing this in stores. Retail therapy indeed.

Even my kitchen cabinets at home must have every plate, bowl, and glass, grouped by style and type and arranged in descending size order, largest in back to smallest in front. Food items arranged the same way, by category, item and type.

When shopping for… whatever… I will dig through the entire pile, comb the whole shelf, search every rack to find the most pristine version, THE very best one, free from scar or blemish.

This madness applies to my flesh as well. I am constantly running my hands over every exposed inch of skin, feeling for any unexpected bump, crusty patch, or pokey bit, always ready for immediate self-surgery with needle, tweezers, or clippers. This is not just fastidious grooming, there is something more insidious and OCD about it.

In ancient times, way back in the days of my secondhand sky-blue Smith Corona portable, I was interviewing for a job, a job I really wanted and was more than qualified for. I arrived early and had just enough time to notice that I had misspelled preparation, P-R-E-P-A-I-R-A-T-I-O-N, on the résumé I’d so painstakingly typed up the night before. I nearly fled the interview due to my shame and distress, not so much from making the sloppy mistake but that I didn’t fucking catch it… of ALL words.

I embarrass myself with these admissions but welcome to my life, people. This behavior must reveal a clinical diagnosis because it sounds certifiably insane. No one ever tells you being yourself is so bloody exhausting.

Let’s now return to the subject at hand, the magical world of words and how to access their transformative power. Even in this confessional exercise, I am finding some liberation.

Full transparency, though I started this… whatever this is… with the intent being a bit of skinny-dipping in the icy stream of my consciousness, far away from the prying eyes (and poisonous tongue) of nasty Queen Marian, I have been unable to refrain from turning an editor’s gaze toward my naked handiwork. But not with the thought of this being anything other than literary therapy. I just needed to continually reassure myself that the tone and tenor was right. That I was narrating with my own voice and not putting on some socially acceptable mask.

I am taking full poetic license here (and in the future) and writing like I speak, potty mouth and all. The spelling and grammar police can just fuck right off. I have decided that I will not beat myself up about ANY of it any longer. Life is too damned short to waste any more time caring what other people (including Her Royal Highness) think.

So, as I align my actions more closely to my words, both those whispered aloud and those screaming in my head, I think it’s also time for some new self-talk and for sharpening another tired old saw, “Write what you know”.

Well, this is what I know:

I know that I am a writer.