I Am A Writer---That's What The Voices Say

In October, I will celebrate my fiftieth birthday. Of course, knowing that I'm going to celebrate such a milestone has made me more thoughtful, and as I remember my life I realize, more than ever that the one constant, through everything has been my writing. Through everything, good and bad, my writing is what's sustained me, and so I thought I'd talk about how I made peace with the fact that in writing, I've found my passion, my vocation, and my reason for being on the planet.

So, let's travel back to where it all began. The location is my bedroom, in a little town in New Jersey, approximately forty-two years ago. It's eight thirty, and I'm in bed, with about seventeen stuffed animals, and I'm not sleeping. Instead, I'm making up stories for each of them, and you'd best believe that each one of them has a fully fleshed history. I suppose this was the first indication that I was a writer.

I can't remember a time when I didn't love words. My parents read to me every night, and I was so taken by stories that I taught myself to read when I was three. After that, my fate was sealed. I never went anywhere without a book in my hand and I started writing stories and poems when I was seven. At slumber parties, I was the one who'd make up the best stories. Relatives and friends alike would often ask, 'Where does she get these ideas?', and they'd often comment on my very vivid imagination. Oh, and let's not even mention the Imaginary Friend thing. I think I had one until I was at least fourteen.

I'd watch people everywhere I'd go, and even eavesdrop when I could, making up stories about their lives, filling in the blanks . In high school I worked for the newspaper, and in college, I wrote for the television station. I was in my element, and I loved it.

Then I graduated from college, and learned, what I thought was the truth, as delivered to me by my parents. "You're not a writer"-they gravely intoned, "unless and until someone publishes you.”

It's not that they didn't read my writing, my mom actually told me she thought I was talented, but both she and my dad agreed, writing wasn't a REAL job. It wasn't something you could do to make a living, it certainly wouldn't pay the bills. Not unless you were fabulously talented, or extremely lucky. To them, writing was only a hobby, and certainly not a career choice for someone who wanted to get ahead in the world.

For a while, I didn't listen to them. In my junior year of college, I switched my major from Communications to English. For the first six months after I graduated, I spent a day a week in New York City, looking for a job, at one of the big publishing houses. I would have even accepted a job in one of their mail-rooms, if they'd offered one to me. After many failures, and no success, I began to believe they were right, and resigned myself to trying to find a real job.

For the next twenty years I held every job known to man. I worked for lawyers, doctors, and held a myriad of other types of offices as a drone, a file clerk, or and administrative assistant. I'm still not sure what that means. Sure, I had money, I paid taxes, I was what most people would call a 'productive and responsible citizen' but there was one thing. I was miserable. I was what truly made me happy, every minute I was doing something other than writing. I was lying to myself. I was letting other people tell me who I was, and what I should do, and I really didn't see anything wrong with it.

Or so I thought.

Flash forward to three years ago. My twenty year relationship had ended, I was single once again, I was unemployed, and everything I thought was good about my well-ordered, figured out life was gone. I cried and slept too much. I didn't want to do anything but feel lousy . Then, somehow, between crying jags, pints of ice cream, and screaming into my pillow, I got an idea, an idea that wouldn't leave me alone. So, on a rainy afternoon, I opened up my Word Perfect Program, and started to write.

A few hours later, I was back in the zone. My muses were awake, my characters were talking to me, and I felt more at peace than I had in years.

Why? Because I'm a writer. It's what I've always been. Now, I'm not going to lie and say things have been easier since that day. In fact some things have been more difficult. I have a lot less money, I live in a smaller house, I'm not able to do some of the things I used to do, like go out to dinner every week.

Instead, I write. Sometimes, I write pages and pages, some days, it may only be a few paragraphs. Whenever I finish anything though, whether it it's a story, a poem, or a blog entry, I get a sense of accomplishment I've never gotten about anything else. Yes, I'm a writer, and I wouldn't want to be anything else.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some blank pages to fill.