I am a Fucking Writer
“And what have you been up to?” She asked as a casual conversation starter. The voice of my writing coach came to mind,”Call yourself a writer, go ahead and try it out.” I pulled my big girl panties up and summoned all tiny shreds of confidence I had, “Oh, I’m a writer now.” Then came the anticipated awkward silence. After which she responded “ Oh… How have the kids been doing with virtual school?”
This bunglesome scene repeated itself in another social interaction. At least the next one said,”oh, interesting. What are you writing?” Of which I reply,”I’m working on a memoir,” thinking this may be a continued conversation. Only to be met with, “that’s nice. do you think you’ll go back to work? “ to which I replied,”I’m a writer.” Then the awkwardness was diffused with,”Are your girls going back to school in the fall?” followed by conversations about my children. Don’t get me wrong, I love talking about my little drops of heaven but I am led to believe being a writer isn’t a real thing.
What does it mean to be a writer anyway? Merriam-Webster defines it as “one who writes”. So I guess I can understand the confusion in bungled conversations. Should I have said author? Merriam-Webster says author is “the writer of literary work”. My numerous counts of blog posts counted right? The full manuscript I have worked on counted right? Counted to whom, was the question. To the ladies making small talk at social gatherings and playdates? To my friends who supported me and told me, ”you’re a fucking writer!” As it seemed I was often in disbelief of the notion. I am purporting that it is me that is in need of convincing.
I am convinced I am a writer because I do all the things writers do in life. My day to day is proof. I scroll Facebook, instagram, watch British shows on Netflix for wordplay inspiration, read for inspiration, meditate to calm my mind down enough to write, then listen to music to get into the mood to write, then play with the animals for comfort to write, then maybe some days I write, some days bedtime beckons at the end of a long day of preparing to write. I say this in jest, truth be told, I do write and edit and write some more. I am a fucking writer I tell myself.
Then when I get done writing, I ask myself again, am I a writer?? Is what I wrote even worth reading? Is anyone going to care? Was I insightful, did the reflections born deep thoughts? Was the language juvenile, amateur? Am I a writer?
I have a writing process, I plug in my ear buds, crank up the Celtic music, breathe, then I click away until I am done with what I start, if it is a chapter; it is written in one go, if it is an essay; it is written until it is done. Edits are of subsequent expectations. I haven’t been much of a take a break come back to it later one. However when I am done, I have my husband have a pass at it proofreading for errors, then providing critical feedback and validation. Then I fix whatever based on his feedback then I email a copy or read it over the phone to my mother in law for more feedback and affirmation, then I email my best friend for even more feedback and approval. Only then do I post anything or does it go to my editor to work on.
See, not only am I a writer, I am a memoirist. Doesn’t that sound delightful? I light up when I say the words to myself,”I am a memoirist.” This means I write a “narrative composed from personal experiences,” according to our friends at Merriam-Webster. This means I write from my own truth of which cannot be in error as it manifestly is life as I have experienced it, thus making it an accurate account on all counts of my memory.
But anxiety is through the roof when it comes to my writing. In a writing circle I once was in I choked up and lost my breath and voice all at the same time while sharing. Three times I shared in that circle and three times I almost passed out. I have spoken to crowds in tandem with my five year old child and had no trouble whatsoever, in front of a TV crew, no problem. But when talking about my writing I freeze up.
I haven’t deciphered if it comes from my weary of content or my craft. I am of the mind it is of that damned recognition as a writer. Where does the weary come from? Am I good enough has been the thread of my days. Will I believe it when my husband says it, when my mother in law does, when a handful of friends do? What if I become an award winning, best selling author? Will it be different then? My husband once said to me,”you will only believe it when someone says your work is shit.” And that is holy gospel, it is the truth. Why is it so hard to receive support? Why is it that the shitty comments are what i shove into the gaping void?
I care to think that it is my insecurities that have found its home in someone so unfulfilled in life that the only way that makes sense to me is the hardest most impossible way in order to be worth it. I look around and I want for nothing, I have a beautiful life, good health, beautiful healthy children, loving, healthy husband, loving supportive family, extraordinarily real supportive friends. Why then is there this sense of a gaping hole that needs filling with external validation?
I am in search of myself; me and my therapist - though I argue she already sees me and is waiting on me to meet her where she is. Just the other day I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the aged woman, tubby body, lines on her face, dark circles under her eyes. I did not like her. I saw in her eyes all the disappointment, sadness and resentment towards the world that went on while she was healing. Then I wept, then I stared into her eyes, into her face, her body and I realized it was where I lived. This body that has failed me yet. I have aged, yes, I have also grown; in more ways than one, but this is me. The gaping hole was where I couldn’t love me. I vowed I would try. I stared at myself every morning when I woke up since that day. I remind myself of the gaping hole and how I deserve to be loved, to be seen.
See, the issue wasn’t about whether I am a writer or not after all, it was whether I was worth being. I am on a quest to learn to love and familiarize myself with this evolved version of myself and to let go of the expectations my younger self with big dreams had. If it is the tubby body that hinders me from loving the updated version of me, I’ll hit the gym. If it’s the lines on my face and the dark circles, I’ll update my skin care routine. What I see in those eyes though, are yet to be available for purchase. Soul searching or self introspection, self healing or whatever it is called, I intend to hunt it down and be the fuck of it. Then I will believe it when I say, “I am a fucking writer!”