I’ve been scribbling down these notes, or notes just like it, probably since I could scribble down notes. Sometimes I think I’m getting closer to what I want to be when I grow up, and other times, I realize I’m already there, or past there. Writer. Photographer. Mama. Did I think my photography would be on museum walls? Well, yes, I had hoped. Having it on family walls means more these days anyway. Did I think I’d be a published author? Well, yes, I had hoped. Having my name on three different co-authored books means more these days anyway. Did I think I would write for magazines and bring coffee to senior editors in NYC? Well, yes, I hadn’t really hoped, actually (at ALL). Writing my blog means more these days anyway.
I’m thin-skinned. I’m not used to heartbreak or rejection. I think more times than not I’m on fire. Moving, prowling, crawling, reaching for what I want and getting what I want. Not always. I’m either a diligent perfectionist or completely useless. There’s no in-between. There’s a difference, though, and it lies with when I’m doing what I should be doing vs. when I’m doing what I shouldn’t be doing. This week I broke all sorts of molds and records. Did I do well, though? Well.
The contractors returned and we now have a hole in our house. I couldn’t be happier about it. It’s all progress. Even though I live in my basement office and I sometimes can’t remember the last meal I had, or full drink of water, and I’m scheduling back to back photo sessions (which is as big of a no-no to me as drinking two cups of coffee in one day), and I’m writing four blog posts a day, and I’m managing two inboxes, and other people’s content. Can you do ALL of that well, though? Well.
When I was just about Scarlet’s age, I wanted to be a Garbage Man. True story. I’d tell it to anyone who listened! Then I gave up that dream and settled on movie star for a few years. Finally as a teenager, I had things much more figured out:
1. I have no love for the art of film. I’m seriously horrible. I just like movies that have happy endings or make me gasp.
2. I failed Biology freshman year of college. I think Marine Biology might have something to do with Biology.
3. I think to be a Pianist, you need to take piano lessons. For more than two months. That’s just what I think.
4. I’ve only written a few poems in my life and I’m almost certain all of them were written under the influence.
So when it was time for me to choose a college major, I treated it as the game I thought it was. I deferred my decision. While all of my friends had been focusing on Psychology or Business or Basket Weaving, for years, I finally declared my major the summer before senior year. Somehow I still graduated in four years. I was just that good. It was Journalism.
After seven years blogging, I think it was the right answer. It wasn’t so random. I was a child who once stayed up nearly all night trying to write a letter to my fourth grade teacher because I had seen her with tears in her eyes one day. She tried to hide them and called them allergies and every other kid in my class believed her. I didn’t. It took me nearly all night to compose what I wanted to say and I said it. She appreciated it and called me at home. She called me “expressive.” I am.
I am someone who has felt like crap about myself FOR YEARS, because I couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with my life.
And maybe, somehow, I’ve been on the right rocky path for awhile. Always over the years, while I was spouting nonsense about being a movie star or poet, I was always writing. (And taking pictures but that’s a separate story) My instinct taught me how to express myself, and maybe even a bit about how to pace myself and find my voice. The schooling in Journalism taught me how to structure my writing, and to consolidate powerful thoughts into more concise stories and articles.
And then one day, seven years ago, I found blogging. And the rest is mere history. I find myself changing so much that I can cringe at the immaturity of a draft I started only a month ago. You have to do it in order to learn it. Then it grows.
I’d like this to not be the end of my story about finding my way back to writing through blogging. I’d like it to be the beginning. I don’t know where this will end up but I know I found my way here for a very strong reason. I’m a writer.
..You spend nearly all night writing a blog post about writing.
..You treat greeting cards as challenges – to write something powerful in as few words as a piece of cardstock will allow.
..You don’t think feedback forms give enough room to say something that’s enough.
..When you go to the Pediatrician and have to fill out forms about your kids, you write so much that you have to turn it over and write on the back. If the back has other questions, you ask for extra paper to attach.
..You’ll find your way to write, no matter what you go through and how you get there.
..When you’re a writer, you always know why you write. It’s the same reason you breathe.
This is me linking up, as one of my favorite things to do, with Finish The Sentence Friday. This week’s topic is “Why I Write…” And there’s still time to write yours. Come link up with your spin on any of the matters: HERE.