Writer

There’s really nothing I can say that will convince anyone that I am a writer. To most people, it means you must be an author. Have published a book, or articles in magazines. The word author is often coupled with words like prolific, original, masterful. But the era of electronics has changed this. Anyone can write and go public. I blog, therefore I am. A writer.

Before blogging I wrote journals. I have most of them stuffed in the window seat storage space of my bedroom. I rarely go back and re-read them. It’s all in the past and no longer who I am. I started writing them when I was 14. My journals are full of rants, and self-pity. I was a writer then because I needed to befriend myself. The journal is a mirror for that part of me that needs to be assured she can live to deal with another day. When life is shitty and incomprehensible, forget shopping. I journal.

Today, why am I a writer? And particularly, why have a chosen to write by way of a blog? I sure as hell have no intention of teaching anyone or sharing information. It’s simply fun. I blog whatever comes to me. It’s all different. There’s no specific focus or intent. I have no timelines, no agenda, no editor giving me guidelines to follow. I blog to be visible to myself. To have a party with all the voices that speak to me. Journals kept in dark musty storage spaces keep me hidden, introverted.

When I write I learn self-respect and self-acceptance. It’s a way of caring for the parts of me that have been neglected. It’s showing me the way to self approval and self love. I go beyond the social world of interactions and exchanges and find a vast landscape of living things with which to commune. And these living things love me back because I pay attention to them. 

These living things - starless days, a slithering snail, a wind whipped tree shivering in the dark. Half-rotten fruit, smokey songs, a cheeky squirrel, the symbolic slap-in-face, the 89 yr old man who hoards, baby thighs. Chia seeds, coconut caramels, cat food, the heat of the crock pot, an ice cube scented with peaty scotch. The runny nose, linen sheets, carpool lanes, marble steps, wet mulch, salty water, Bob Dylan’s harmonica. Aaaah. There’s more. And more. There’s always more. More love than any heart can handle. 

Through writing I’ve learned the writer’s secret answer - I write so as to never have a reason to be hateful. If my writing hurts, I question it. It may not be writing. It may not have joyfully lived, sung, or dreamed. I throw it away. Write something real. Something someone can relate to. Or not. I just checked my trash. It's empty.

Writing can be a sword. But only those needing to be cut and healed will feel it. Writing can bring forth tears. But only those who have not crossed the sea of sadness can be ruptured by grief. Writing gifts the lonely with solitude, the harried with something worth doing, the worrier with song. Be a writer and forget why.