Writers Write

I have always wanted to be a writer.  For as long as I can remember.  I “wrote” my first book when I was five and actually couldn’t even write or read yet.  I drew the pictures and dictated the story to my dad, and he wrote it out for me.  It was a riveting tale about Cookie Monster and Big Bird and their picnic trip to the park.  My dad had me draw a self-portrait on the back page and he wrote an About the Author.  Then we hole-punched the pages and bound my first book with yarn.  I still have it…somewhere. 

Fast forward a few years.  With the confidence that comes only with childhood, I would refer to myself as a writer to anyone and everyone.  Not “a writer when I grow up.”  Just a writer.  My parents jumped right in with me.  My dad would check in with me sometimes, asking what I was working on and what I’d written lately.  He’d never ask to read it unless I offered, but he would often check in.  If I answered, “nothing,” he would say, “Remember, writers write.”

Writers write.  But writing is so hard.  And the older I got, the less confident I got about my writing and about disclosing my identity as a writer.  I found that I feared people’s reaction.  What if they wanted to read something I wrote?  What if they didn’t like it?  Or worse, what if they did and then I found that that was the best thing I would ever write?  Or even worse still, what if they said, “Isn’t that cute?”  Or, “You mean you want to be a writer when you grow up?”  Shudder.

So I kept writing (sometimes) but I became extremely selective about whom I shared my writing with, and I shared it less often.  Over time, I filled a whole shelf in my bookshelf with journals and I started thinking that I would still be a writer, only someday.  And then I would go for long periods of time without writing anything except an occasional journal entry (and the voice of judgment in my head, “Do those even count?”) But writers write, and I wasn’t really writing, so…

In 2005, right after I got married, I played around with the idea of starting a blog.  It didn’t stick.  But there was still the hunger for connection, the hunger to tell my story. 

Then, last February, I started sending emails to a few of my closest friends, many of whom are also writers.  I would jot down a snippet of my day or a thought about the world or taking five kids to the store… (which, seriously, you have not lived until you’ve taken five kids to the store) but I was still hesitant to commit to an actual blog.

But then I did.  And I am sharing it with you.  And I feel like I jumped off a cliff without a parachute.  Which, incidentally, I’ve seen someone do.  It’s not pretty.  Well, he didn’t actually jump, he fell.  But still.  Don’t worry, he’s fine now.  He’s my husband and the father of my children, so I guess it has a happy ending, but the cliff doesn’t really have anything to do with the happy ending part.  Jumping/falling off of cliffs is still bad. All that to say, I’m free-falling here.  And I’m scared. 

And then my lovely friend Lauren reminded me of a great quote recently. (Lauren has an amazing blog called The Thinking Closet, which you should check out.  She does a lot of excellent creative tutorials, but even if you don’t consider yourself crafty, you should still visit her site.  I mean, I can’t D.I.Y. my own stick figures, but I loooooove reading her blog.)  Anyway, Lauren reminded me of this quote:

“To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.” –Joseph Chilton Pearce

I felt like someone hit me in the stomach and my eyes filled with tears and I knew, I KNEW that more than anything else, I am afraid of being wrong.  Or looking silly.  Or making a mistake.   And you know what?  I will make mistakes.  And look silly.  And even (gasp) be wrong.  But it’s worth it.  Because you know what else?  I will also be a writer.

When I was reading The Artist's Way today I came across another great quote by an author known as Colette (I know, The Artist's Way again, I’m telling you, I love that book.)  Anyway, the quote was, “You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm. ”  I laughed.  And then I enthusiastically wrote this post.

Here’s to reawakening dormant dreams.  To losing our fear of being wrong. To doing foolish things with enthusiasm.  Here's to sharing our stories with one another.

And in answer to that voice of judgment from before?  “Yes.  Journal entries DO count.  It all counts.”

I’m a writer.  But at almost 34 years old, with three kids, a mortgage payment, and two jobs, I’m still not grown up.