I want to be a writer. I want to be a writer more than
anything else in the world. I've wanted to be a writer since I was about six
years old. Sometimes I call myself a writer, just trying it on for size, hoping
it will stick, like an affirmation, the way I might tell myself, “My house is
clean and organized,” “I really only like healthy foods,” or “I am confident
and self-assured.” (None of those have ever actually worked for me, either, but
I keep trying.)
Sometimes other people call me a writer, and when that
happens, it's so exciting and fulfilling that it sometimes makes me giddy for
days at a time. Like when I met Meredith Hall, the author of the best memoir I
have ever read, at a reading at the library, and she signed my copy of her
book, Without A Map, “To Amy, a fellow writer.” Wow! Or when I overheard
the library director tell a patron, “The writers are meeting downstairs this
morning.” That's my writing group, six late-middle-aged women who have
been meeting monthly at the library for nearly two years now to share what
frustrates, exhilarates, hinders, and inspires us in our writing lives. We've
become each other's confidantes, critics, and cheerleaders. We're writers.
I talk about writing, read about writing, think about
writing, dream about writing. I subscribe to two writing magazines and own a
few dozen books about writing. I devour every NPR offering that features a
writer sharing what inspires her, talking about her writing process, reading
from her work.
My desk is cluttered with books of writing prompts, a
thesaurus, a dictionary. My bulletin board features inspirational quotes like,
“[Writing a novel] is like driving a car at night. You never see further than
your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way” (E.L. Doctorow), and
“Nulla dies sine linea” (“Not a day without a line”), and “Butt in
chair!”
Writing fires me up, calms me down, challenges me, assures
me that I am good at something. It gives me an outlet for pent-up anxiety and
frustration and anger, as well as a way to express the more tender sentiments I
often struggle to verbalize. Writing connects me to my authentic self: I am most myself when I am writing.
The problem is, I don't actually write much.
The reasons are many. A few of them are even somewhat valid.
I'm busy. I work. I cook from scratch and can't bring myself to do it any other
way. I don't live alone, and I'm very easily distracted. I'm committed to a
daily exercise program and I floss my teeth every single day, and, geez, it's
hard to find time for everything.
But the biggest problem is probably the way I've always
regarded my writing: as a form of entertainment, a fun thing I can do if I have
time. But who ever has extra time? Writing has been my reward for getting the
floors vacuumed, the dishes done, the laundry caught up, the junk drawer
organized...and if you've ever seen my house, you know the likelihood of those
things actually happening regularly.
Obviously, I need to change my thinking. I need to make
writing a priority. Maybe I need to post a new quote, like this one from
Margaret Laurence: “When I say work, I only mean writing. Everything else is
just odd jobs.”
So, New Year's Resolution #1: I will take my writing at
least as seriously as I take the vacuuming, the dishes, and the laundry. And,
dammit, more seriously than the junk drawer!
