“There’s a reason why this prison is the worst hell on earth… Hope. Every man who has rotted here over the centuries has looked up to the light and imagined climbing to freedom. So easy… So simple… And like shipwrecked men turning to sea water from uncontrollable thirst, many have died trying. I learned here that there can be no true despair without hope.”
You know the Pit, right? It’s the prison where Batman is taken after being defeated by Bane in the Dark Knight Rises.
Bane’s quote regarding the Pit resonates with me on many levels. That notion of hope leading to despair is a troubling one, and its something I’ve been struggling with for a long time as a budding artist.
You see, I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a kid. It wasn’t until I turned eighteen that I began taking it seriously, allowing it to consume the majority of my conscious mind, reading book after book on how to craft sentences and how to write the first five pages of a manuscript. How to build characters and worlds, paragraphs and scenes. When I’m not writing, chances are I’m thinking about it, talking about it, or, more often than not, fantasizing about it.
I remember when I first started, how simple it all seemed. I had ideas, I had pens and paper, I had time. And so my journey began. A long and cumbersome journey. Fast-forward eight years and I’m still here, clinging to this hope that some day I might make a career out of this.
Only things are different now.
The thing is, I’ve failed practically every attempt I’ve made so far. Eight years into this gig and I’ve barely made a chink in the wall. No published works, no prospects, no promising stories. I’ve made progress, sure. I’m certainly more humble than I was before. I can handle criticism, to an extent, and I do write with somewhat improved ability. But for the life of me I can’t help but feel that nag of despair, that inner-voice telling me that this is it. That no matter how hard I try, I am doomed to spend the rest of my life dreaming about some day becoming a published writer.
And this is where the Pit comes in.
The Pit is a prison. A big-ass hole in the ground with a large well rising up from it. What makes it so disparaging is that any man is free to leave, so long as they have what it takes to scale the walls of that well and climb out.
But who has what it takes? Everyone? Me? How do I know?
Now, some might say that a true writer doesn’t need to be published. If you love writing, and you do it, then you have succeeded. I love that idea, and I don’t mean to discourage anyone who lives by it. But the thing I love about writing isn’t the act itself. It’s what it can do. It’s the sharing of ideas, the impact it has on other people’s lives. Stories shape the world, they become a part of the people who read them. That is my ambition. Not to be rich or known, but to share my thoughts and ideas with others. To bring joy or hope or enlightenment to my readers. And for that to happen, I must have readers with which to share. And before THAT, I have to have stories and ideas worth sharing.
Others might say, “Hey, maybe writing just isn’t your thing. Maybe its time to try something else. Like, oh I don’t know, something you’re good at.”
But that’s the problem. THIS is what I want. Not because I want to want it, but because I simply DO.
Sure, there’s a part of me that yearns to turn away from it all. To call it quits and find something else to strive for. Ah, but there’s that glimmer of light just above. That open sky where all of our dreams come true. Not too far, no, but just out of reach.
Besides, how can I quit aspiring to the one thing I wish to be?
The fact is, I can’t. Like those in the Pit, I’m here and there’s no way out but up. And like so many before me, I can spend my life staring up at that sky and wondering if I have what it takes, or I can grit my teeth and work toward being the thing I wish to be.
Here’s the deal. It’s doable. People do get out. But no one gets out by whining about it, or sitting on their asses daydreaming about what goes on outside. No, the ones who get out are the ones willing to push themselves to the limit. To get up every day, do some damn push-ups, and make themselves better, stronger writers.
Because there’s no other option. At the end of the day, I AM a writer. Do I have what it takes to climb out of the Pit? Maybe not. Do I have what it takes to try?