A few years ago, I came to a crisis point in my life. I was unhappy. I realized I didn’t want to be unhappy anymore. I wondered what I could do to fix it. If there was anything I had complete control over, independent of my life circumstances. I began researching. I am big on continual self-education. For me, learning did not stop once I got my degree. And I hope it never will. When I began my self-discovery work, my rate of learning only increased. I read books about happiness and what affected it, habit formation, meditation, and a plethora of other topics. I started looking at my motivations. Why I did the things I did. Made the choices I was making. I took a deep dive and got really, brutally honest with myself. All the while writing.
I was growing and learning and becoming more sophisticated in my thinking at a rate that was unprecedented, and so my writing began to reflect that. But my skill wasn’t up to the task of explaining what I really wanted to say. That frustrated me, so I set about rectifying the situation. I started learning more about the craft of writing. I read books on the subject. I began attending conventions. I looked up other author websites and created my own and began blogging. I reached out to writing groups. Over time, I came to understand that my perspective (just like everyone else’s, by the way) is utterly unique. Only I can tell my stories the way I tell them. With that realization, a shift happened.
I’ve been writing for a long time. I’ve kept a journal for over twenty years and have been writing fiction since at least junior high. It’s been such a normal part of my life for so long, that I never gave it any thought. It never occurred to me to make the proclamation “I am a Writer!” I’ve mentioned over the years to my family and friends that I write, but none of them ever showed much of an interest. And to be honest, I never thought much of it either. It was just something I had always done. Not breaking news. I never offered to show anything to them. It was in the same vein as when I told them I was into steampunk and renaissance fairs. Or that I just started reading a new book series. It was a hobby. A hobby I was particularly shy and reticent about. Something I did to pass the time because I enjoyed it. Not anything that was serious or structured. But as I was having all these revelations about myself, I began writing more and more, needing to get my thoughts down on paper. I read more than I ever had before in a wider array of genres. My perspectives started to change and grow and stretch. And through all that, I started to think about my writing itself. How I actually felt about it. I have always been someone who writes, but it began to take on a new dimension. How I felt about it in my head changed. I was becoming a Writer.
According to Merriam Webster (I can hear you rolling your eyes but stick with me) a writer is literally ‘one who writes’. But I began to think that there was really more to it than that. At least for the way I was feeing. So, I went a little deeper. The term author gives the following definitions: 1) the writer of a literary work, 2) one that originates or creates something. Creates something. A creator. That felt closer. But for me it went even further. Not just creating but creating something worthwhile. What makes something worthwhile? Being worth the effort and time spent or being worthy. Worthy: 1) Having worth or value; 2) honorable, meritorious. Now we’re getting somewhere.
During that period of discovery (which is still ongoing), I realized something very interesting. Writing is the only thing I choose to do every day. The ONLY thing. This is not even true for reading. Shocking to those that know me, but true. It is a fundamental part of who I am. It is something that I MUST do. I can’t remember the last time a day went by that I didn’t write something. Anything. Even if it was just a quick note in my journal about something that happened. Or a dream I had. Or a random, odd thought. I simply can’t help myself. For me, putting my thoughts down on paper is an outlet. A way to vent, or retreat, or make sense of things.
Imagine my surprise when I had the realization that writing was no longer, in fact, just a hobby that I did when I was bored. It had evolved. My thinking about it had evolved. My understanding of why I did it had shifted. It suddenly wasn’t fulfilling anymore to just slap a few words down on the page and hide it away in my journal, with no further thought. No ideas of what it could become or mean. I began to wonder if there were others out there that might benefit from my words. From my perspective on things. Maybe, as I had from other Writers, they could glean some comfort, validation, or understanding for their own thoughts and circumstances from my writing. Or maybe I could pry open someone’s mind just the tiniest bit and give them an opportunity to grow. Maybe my writing could help someone. Make a difference in someone’s day.
As I have come to understand, for me, being a Writer is not dependent upon being published. Or having a fan base who loves my stuff. Or making money. Now, don’t get me wrong, all these things would be wonderful, and I hope someday they are true. For me, being a Writer means not just writing for itself. It means writing to understand and wrap my head around things. Sometimes with the intention that someone else may read it and that I may reach them. It’s not about hurriedly getting thoughts down on paper just to get them out of my head. I still do that too, but I also take time to craft. To curate ideas and stories and mold them in a way that lifts them higher. That makes them mean something. This doesn’t mean that everything I write is super serious and full of deep meaning and so complex that it takes days of contemplation and multiple re-reads to comprehend. Far from it; I’m not that Writer. Most of my writing is simple, down to earth. Often sweet, gentle fluff stories; comedy. Even the serious ones often don’t have a lot of unpacking to do. Writing doesn’t have to be a grand weighty tome or a sweeping epic drama to have an impact. Sometimes a one-liner can elicit more emotion than a thirty-page missive. It’s all about feeling and truth. And the thought that I put into it.
Being a Writer takes skill. A lot more than I had when I first started to understand the difference. A lot more than I still think I have some days. In fact, I am struggling to write this article. Finding the words to say what I’m actually trying to say in a way that others can truly understand can be exhausting. Which brings me to my next point: It’s hard work! Much harder than many things I’ve ever had to do in my life.
It’s takes bravery and grit. I mean, I have to actually finish things and let people see it. And accept the responsibility for someone else seeing it. And accept that they may hate it or that they may misunderstand despite my best efforts. This has added an entire order of magnitude. It’s serious business, this Writing stuff. Even when it’s couched in comedy or fluffiness. It feels too big sometimes. Too scary.
But despite all that, I keep writing. Like I said, I can’t seem to help myself. And the genie is out of the bottle so to speak. I can only go forward.
So, here it is. The long over-due proclamation. I am a Writer.
Hopefully, someday, I will be able to make a difference. Even if it’s only in my own little life.
I am far from the first person who has wondered about this. Here are some links for other’s thoughts on the subject and what it means to be them to be a Writer.
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