I Am a Writer

I am a writer.

It's taken me 36 years to say that.

Before, I've always equivocated. "I like to write," I've said. "I blog sometimes." "I enjoy writing." But to actually call myself a writer? Isn't that for people who do it so much better than I do? For people whose imaginary stories spill out of their fingertips and onto the page, creating magic in their wake? For those lucky souls who possess the ability to create alternate realities, to transport others to places unseen and yet just as real in the imagination as the page on which its written? Surely it's not for a person like me, a person who struggles to find the right words and put them in the right order, who deletes and rewrites and still isn't satisfied. It cannot refer to someone who writes about the mundane in spurts and starts and wouldn't know author's craft if it bit her in the face. A writer is someone polished, someone smart and creative, someone who knows what the hell she is doing.

What I do is not a calling. It's not my life's work. It's a hobby, at best. It's something I pick up and put down as it suits my needs. And yet - I craft  blog posts in my head in the car, in the shower, as I'm falling asleep at night. I write novel-length comments on social media. I argue, I defend, I explain, I express myself at every opportunity via the written word.

When I'm not writing, I miss it. There's a hole. I think about writing at odd moments, just before I dismiss it as too trivial to record. I feel somehow less myself when I'm not writing. I can't really explain it - I just know that I need it.

Writing is  a part of me. I may never publish a book, and that's okay. I may never have an audience beyond my small group of close-knit friends and family. That's okay, too. What I'm slowly realizing, is that none of that matters. My identity has been in flux lately as I struggle to redefine who I am, what I believe, what matters to me. And I keep coming back to this: I am many things. I am a mother, a teacher, an advocate. I am a survivor. I am a designer and a crafter, a home chef and a planner.

And I am a writer.

Acknowledging that, even if it's just to myself, feels good. It feels right.

 It feels like coming home.



Comments

  1. CristyOctober 14, 2017 at 6:03 PM

    Bravo for owning it. Bravo

    ReplyDelete
  2. My New NormalOctober 14, 2017 at 7:52 PM

    I feel the same way. I get a huge release when I write. But I often let it go when life gets crazy. I am a writer too.

    ReplyDelete
  3. areyoukiddingmeOctober 17, 2017 at 3:36 PM

    This is a good start on the rebuilding - knowing your parts so you can assemble them into the whole.

    ReplyDelete
  4. AnonymousOctober 19, 2017 at 7:08 AM

    Good for you!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Living With Fear

Fear. That feeling, deep in the pit of your stomach, that something isn’t right. It’s a survival mechanism, an evolutionary trait meant to keep us safe and to spur us into action when necessary. Sometimes, though, fear can be paralyzing. Instead of fight or flight, fear can keep us stuck, trapped in the situation that makes us feel unsafe. I’m well versed in fear. If I’m honest with myself, fear has motivated many of my adult life decisions. Fear of the unknown, fear of starting over, fear of never having children, and then fear of being the sole caregiver for said children, all kept me in a marriage that made me miserable for far too long. Lately, though, my fear has shifted. I’ve conquered many of the fears that kept me immobile for so long. I’ve opened up about my journey, and my shame. Because I AM ashamed. I am angry, at myself, that I let fears of possibilities (never certainties) control my decisions for so long. Now, though, I’m living with a different fear - a very real on...
Read more

Breaking the Silence: Why I Stayed

It's a fair question, one that doesn't have a simple answer.  If my marriage was so awful, and my ex-husband abusive, why on earth did I stay?  I stayed for lots of reasons.  I stayed because I was afraid - of the unknown, of starting over, of being alone. I stayed because I wanted children. I stayed because I didn't want to admit failure. I stayed because "God hates divorce." I stayed because I made my bed, and now I had to lie in it. I stayed because everyone has problems, and no one's marriage is perfect. I stayed because I am stubborn. I stayed because relationships take work. I stayed because I thought I could save him. I stayed because I couldn't imagine my life any differently. I stayed because my children deserved to know their father. I stayed because I was scared of supporting them on my own. I stayed for a thousand reasons, but most of all I stayed because I believed him.  I believed him when he told me that no one el...
Read more

Taking Stock of the Holidays

I've always had a love/hate relationship with this time of year.  For many years, the ache of infertility cast a shadow on the festivities.  I overcompensated by filling my time with decorating the perfect tree, buying gifts and wrapping them with elaborate bows, and planning a fabulous feast. When the kids came along, I transferred my attention to them, and to making all the memories that I had long wanted to pass down. This year is different.  This year, I'm navigating our first Christmas as a divorced family, unencumbered by the expectations of others.  I get to call the shots, which means that I've spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about what this holiday means to me, and what I want it to mean to the boys. As a secular humanist, Christmas for me isn't about religious rituals or a deeper spiritual meaning.  It's simply about the people I love, and celebrating them in a fun and festive way.  It's about tradition, about passing on pieces of my...
Read more