I’ve known one thing for all of my life: I am a writer.
That’s a lie.
I’ve only known since I was 13 years old and accidentally discovered that I was better with a pencil and notebook paper than I was with face-to-face conversation. Apparently, it runs in my blood. My dad was a writer of poetry, and that is how he won my mother’s heart – with strings of thoughtful and sweet words scrawled upon napkins and left for a young waitress to find after closing time.
I am a writer. I do not say this with haughty disdain towards Those Who Think They Know But Don’t Know. I say it because it is what I am paid to do, by way of career. I am paid to put words to paper and dispense it to the masses.
But there is only a sliver of truth to the insinuation that I am where I meant to be. I meant to write novels. What I actually write are untraditional, feature story-length press releases for race teams in a branch of motorsports that promotes eclipsing a quarter-mile of asphalt at 215 mph in just under 6.5 seconds.
That label, too, is a lie. There is nothing boring about the sport or the drivers and teams I write about. It’s fascinating and thrilling and scary and it makes my heart pump like crazy in a wild, adrenaline-infused twitchtwitchtwitchtwitchtwitch.
The fact that this isn’t where I meant to be is hardly a reason to complain. And so I am not – I am simply enjoying this fast-paced ride while it lasts while not ever, ever losing sight of the goal.