Are you a writer?
The question, as it came after reading something I had posted, affected me; made me think, made me question, embarrassed me a little…
It was as though, after I’d introduced my son, he had asked, “Are you a mother?”
Or, upon meeting me, sweaty and winded, on the track, “Are you a runner?”
My defensive reaction to a simple, albeit unwitting question, paced back and forth in the recesses of my mind for the rest of the day, occasionally coming out front and tapping, lightly on my brain…
“Hey! Are you? Are you a writer?”
In the few quiet moments I had to consider the question I was left with this…
I readily admit to being lots of things; I am Mom, I am friend, I am employee, I am daughter, I am sister, I am family to those whose own has forgotten them, and, I am object of affection, too tired, too drained, too raw, to give anything back.
And, none of these things define me.
In a remarkably transcendent way writing does. There is something about describing myself as a writer that leaves me feeling bare and open; exposed.
Because that’s what writing does. Writing takes all the ugly, half-used, naked, and very real stuff we all carry around with us, and puts it out on the table.
And declaring that you are a writer demands, “Look at it.”.
I am a writer.
The question, as it came after reading something I had posted, affected me; made me think, made me question, embarrassed me a little…
It was as though, after I’d introduced my son, he had asked, “Are you a mother?”
Or, upon meeting me, sweaty and winded, on the track, “Are you a runner?”
My defensive reaction to a simple, albeit unwitting question, paced back and forth in the recesses of my mind for the rest of the day, occasionally coming out front and tapping, lightly on my brain…
“Hey! Are you? Are you a writer?”
In the few quiet moments I had to consider the question I was left with this…
I readily admit to being lots of things; I am Mom, I am friend, I am employee, I am daughter, I am sister, I am family to those whose own has forgotten them, and, I am object of affection, too tired, too drained, too raw, to give anything back.
And, none of these things define me.
In a remarkably transcendent way writing does. There is something about describing myself as a writer that leaves me feeling bare and open; exposed.
Because that’s what writing does. Writing takes all the ugly, half-used, naked, and very real stuff we all carry around with us, and puts it out on the table.
And declaring that you are a writer demands, “Look at it.”.
I am a writer.
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
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2 comments:
Yes, you ARE a writer. Clearly. And those of us who have had the privilege of reading your well-sculpted words thank you for it. Please keep writing.
I had a thought about this posting after reading it again. I wonder if the person was asking whether or not you were a PROFESSIONAL writer. That, I would think, would be a great compliment. Please take my comment as such. (And you could be....)
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