Am I a writer?
Further to the view that identities shift and change depending on circumstance – an idea aired in the previous post , I sat and thought more about my own situation, trying to pinpoint the exact moment that I began to acknowledge myself as a writer…
Does it really matter though? I suppose not. Except that sometimes, when one acknowledges a point in one’s life, it can be a defining moment, one where one’s backbone becomes even stronger, one’s desires and determinations have greater direction.
Just lately, with being bed-ridden and then couch-ridden, I’ve had a bit of time to contemplate my navel. (Oxford Dictionary’s interpretation of same – ‘to spend time … considering oneself or one’s interests…‘). I noted that nothing had changed. I still wanted to write, I needed to write and under the weather or not, I wrote!
So – that moment…
I had to fill out a form recently, one of those interminable government forms that amongst other pertinent and impertinent questions, it requested my occupation. I wrote without thinking.
‘Writer.’
It came unconsciously – from deep in my soul, I reckon.
But I also recall the moment we decided to renovate our kitchen and laundry at the end of 2014 and I was able to say to my husband, ‘I think my earnings can cover this.’ The comment was tentative, but he is my business manager and he nodded.
I also recall the moment when Tobias was published and I realised I had published eight (that’s 8) books with the ninth currently underway. And I thought,
I am a writer!
The fact that all eight continue to rank unbroken on Amazon.co.uk in various categories…
Huzzah, I AM a writer!
The fact that I have one more book to write in this latest trilogy; that there are two short stories being released for Christmas as e-books; that I am doing a collaboration in a completely different timeframe after I’ve finished the trilogy (2017-ish?). And that there are plans to contribute to an hist.fict anthology about Venice with some seriously wonderful and highly respected writers…
Triple Huzzahs, it seems I am a WRITER!
If not now, when, for heaven’s sake?
I guess I have been backwards in coming forwards since 2008, Pat!
It’s so odd for me to read this, because I never knew you when you weren’t a writer. And I don’t just mean the books, either, Every blog entry, pretty much every FB post is from the sensibility of someone steeped in words and imagination. When reading your blog, early on, I was struck by the sheer detail you infused into the most basic entry. If it has taken you this long to put a name to this most basic part of yourself, it’s most likely because you have been so immersed in being that self.
Rebecca, I think it’s more lack of confidence, perhaps lack of self-belief, maybe shyness? All of those. But it’s also a degree of comparison. As a reader, I have demolished masses of wonderful novels through my life and I’ve held favourite writers in very high esteem. To call myself a writer means I’m putting myself… on their level, for want of a better description. Somehow it seemed egotistical at best, downright arrogant at worst. But then I guess hours of writing and a multitude of words, some wonderful emails and a little bit of success and income has finally convinced me… rightly or wrongly.