Two of my best friends from college visited me over a long, hot weekend in July. We spent a brief time in catch-up mode, covering the four years since our last meeting together, before slipping smoothly into the comfortable space of true and present friendship. When people are this intimate, bullshit becomes unnecessary. Truths and dreams spill out in conversations. Their visit made me realize how much of my daily life I spend being polite and banal, offering up small talk and speaking in a way I think others will find acceptable.
Iโve molded my public persona in such a way that I rarely talk about myself without making excuses or justifications. I apologize for being a vegetarian. I say, โI know itโs weird, butโฆโ as a preface when mentioning my insomnia, or the fact that I live in the suburbs, or my affinity for iced tea or vacuuming. I have not yet figured out how to tell my story in a straightforward, unapologetic way.
Nowhere is this worse than when I talk about myself as a writer. Though โwriterโ is the deepest, truest part of my identity, Iโm quick to gloss over it, dismiss and diminish it, to make it seem as if itโs nothing more than a whim. When asked what I do for a living, I always hear myself say the same thing: โWell, Iโm a writer, but, I mean, I have a day job.โ And then I go into a lengthy explanation of said day job, detailing the activities I do with seniors. Maybe I think I owe the world a practical answer. Maybe I know the follow-up question is about publication, and I think my list of publications means little to anyone outside the literary world. Maybe talking about working at a retirement center makes me sound more balanced, or more altruistic, or moreโฆ something.
Perhaps Iโve been conditioned by my own judgmental tendencies, by the way I sometimes cringe internally when others make the dreaded โIโm a writerโ proclamation. โHaving a blog doesnโt make you a writer,โ my inner bitch wants to say โ though of course I have my own blog, and of course this denouncement is nothing more than a reflection of my own insecurity. Still, announcing myself as a writer seems arrogant and misguided. Iโve never published a book, I do not get paid for my craft, nobody knows who I am, but let me stand tall as I tell you I consider myself to be a writer has an odd ring to it.
So I tell a different story instead. Itโs not an untrue story, and neither is it a complete story. When people ask what I โdoโ and I talk about the residents I spend time playing games and going shopping with, gaps surface in the narrative. I do not confess to spending the majority of my days daydreaming about being somewhere else. I do not talk about the writing program my friend installed on my phone, the one I use while waiting for residents at their medical appointments. I do not mention my bathroom breaks, when I lock the door behind me, turn the faucet on, and read as much as I can, as quickly as I can. When I park the car after driving a resident somewhere, I linger in the driverโs seat, jotting things down in a notebook, wondering how long I can stay before my absence is noticed. As much as I love my residents and coworkers, I spend the majority of my day looking at clocks, calculating the minute when I can go home and get on my laptop โ the minute when I can go home and be myself.
That person โ the one slipping into other worlds and inhabiting characters โ is the real me. But Iโm hesitant to show her to the world, reluctant to own up to having dreams so big. Even writing this essay feels silly. I again feel the need to justify myself, and to assure you that I donโt think Iโm going to โmake itโ as writer or anything, that of course I donโt actually think I could ever support myself financially as a full-time writer, but maybe I would like to take six months and give it a go, and I know that sounds kind of weird, butโฆ
But nothing.
My single goal in life, from the time I was old enough to learn how to read, was to write. I never questioned what I wanted โ never switched majors or considered other careers. Iโve spent years writing after work in the evenings, on weekends, here and there and wherever I could. For me to now get bashful and apologize for my โweirdโ plan for putting my energy toward writing is for me to further pretend Iโm someone Iโm not.
โI am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer.โ Someone suggested I write this in big, bold letters and display it prominently in my apartment. What would happen if I stopped pushing down the things about myself that make me who I am, and what would happen if I stopped justifying myself to everyone?
I keep thinking Iโm different from my friends who are teachers, nurses, architects and dentists. They made it look so simple: go to school, study teaching, become a teacher. Meanwhile I got a bachelorโs degree in writing, waited tables for three years, got a masterโs degree in writing, got a job at a retirement center. Writers donโt just go become writers. They become waitresses who write. They become social media specialists who write. Retirement center activities assistants who write.
But the real question is this: Do they write? Iโve realized that when I get past the obnoxious questions, the ones that come from the world at large and from an insecure place deep within myself, writing has little to do with publishing a book or getting paid or being known. Writing has everything to do with writing.
Writing while working full-time can be exhausting, but it is not impossible. And writing while working less-than-full-time, or while not working at all: thatโs possible, too. Lately, itโs become increasingly apparent that I keep waiting for the world to give me permission to do something that only I can give myself permission to do. My boss is never going to say to me, โGosh, Kristen, I know youโre passionate about this writing thing. Have you ever considered taking six months off and focusing on that?โ My family is not going to say, โYou donโt need to work 40 hours a week because you feel like itโs the practical thing to do.โ Strangers are not going to tell me to go for it. Iโm the only one who can say, โI believe in myself enough to do this.โ
What โthisโ is, truly: Itโs getting up early and staying up late and turning down invitations on the weekend so I can write. Itโs cutting my hours at work and itโs looking for ways to take time off entirely and itโs prioritizing my life in such a way that writing reigns. Itโs carrying notebooks in my purse and installing a writing application on my phone and itโs lugging my laptop to coffee shops. Itโs putting down a lot of shitty sentences and then editing them until theyโre a little less shitty. Itโs thinking about characters and plot lines throughout the day. Itโs putting my essays out into the world. Itโs soliciting agents and taking their rejections gracefully. Sometimes itโs black coffee or red wine or forgetting to eat for hours and sometimes itโs taking a long break to go for a walk or a run or to talk to another human being. Writing is caring and writing is trying and writing is doing.
Maybe my teacher friends make lesson plans and my dentist friends attend dental conferences and my nursing friends read up about the latest procedures and drugs. But I sit on at my grandmaโs old dining room table, or my blue futon, or my bed, and I write. I write and I write and that counts for something.
Will people think Iโm crazy if I call myself a writer?
Maybe I am crazy, but a big part of my crazy is this thing inside of me, this thing that presses so hard against my chest, digging into me with every breath. โWhatโs the one thing you think about most?โ my friend asked during that recent visit. And because I was with real friends, the ones who know me better than anyone, I didnโt hesitate and I didnโt attempt to dilute my response. โWriting,โ I said, because itโs my truth. Itโs my story.
I may never figure out a way to talk to others about my writing or other โweirdโ aspects of my personality, but maybe learning to talk about it isnโt really the point. Maybe writing about it is a good first step. Iโm telling the world that I think Iโm capable and worthy, though itโs terrifying not to hide behind an apology or justification, not to say, โI mean, I know it sounds crazy, but โฆโ
But nothing.
I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer. And if you write โ if you really, really write โ so are you.
