In a recent novel I was reading, a conversation between the two main characters stuck in my mind. The antagonist was a horror writer. Ala Stephen King, I suspect. The protagonist was a woman determined to write a story for her gossip magazine, about the horror writer – a man who was a recluse. The conversation is paraphrased below.
“Why do you write?” she asked. “What I mean is, when did you realize you wanted to be a writer?”
“I wanted to play soccer,” he said.
“But you’re a successful writer. Not a soccer player.”
“I wanted to play soccer, I chose to write because… I am a writer.”
“How did you know?” she pressed.
“I just knew,” he answered.
If you’re a writer of that caliber, you understand. The answer to ‘why do you write’ is, “Because it’s who I am.”
From a young age, I knew I was a writer. Sadly, I did not pursue my writing as I might have. I allowed circumstance to hold me back, fill me with doubt, and direct me to a path that was okay, but not really me.
In time, after having three children, the call to write returned so strongly, I could not ignore it. I sat down and wrote, when the children went to school. I studied writing in my spare time. I created stories and started novels and I poured myself onto the page like a heavy syrup onto waffles – seeping into the crevices, surrounding melted butter, flowing off the edges.
And, I began to see results.
And still, life said, “You are a mother. You have children to care for. Put aside this foolishness and care for your children.” And so I did. I divorced my then-husband, I got a job, I took care of my children, and I languished for many years. I craved the comfort of my writing, but I did little of it.
I ached for the delight of the written word on paper, created from the depths of my hidden closet of desire, and soothed the ache by reading. But reading only made me cry. “I could write this!” I would whisper in the quiet of my empty room, at night. Anger made me bitter.
And finally, I woke up.
I opened the drapes. The day could have been dreary or sunny, cold or warm, full of energy or dull and unpolished. I don’t know. I only know I came to life and said, “I write because I am.” And so, I decided to be who I am on that day. I decided to write.
Am I now a famous author with numerous published works? No. I am a writer. I write for myself primarily, with dreams of great success. I blog and I know many people read what I blog, which is a new form of writing. A form I enjoy, though it’s not my first passion.
And, oh the joy of discovering I am able to help others write. I am able to help others remove the stumbling blocks in their way and embrace the writer they are! I have come full circle, perhaps. Yes, my writer self continues to push me to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), and I do so. But, the years have brought me other value in my talent for writing. The true value of community.
We are community here. We are writers and authors and dreamers. We read silently or out loud and we sing songs to music no one can hear but ourselves. We press eagerly on, day after day, and we share our stories, begotten from lost dreams, as ethereal as fog or a morning mist.
To have this opportunity at my fingertips, is more than I ever dreamed could happen.
I am honored to be a part of The Lipsticking Society, as its Founder.
Watch this space for more exciting opportunities, news, and events.
I write because I am. I am because I write. The one follows the other, and the bond between can never be severed. It exists within – as dreams and hopes and desires exist – captured in our hearts, shared sparingly, offered with reserve.
Are you ready? Are you ready to move forward with your writing? To unleash the you that has been lurking behind your tears and sleepless nights?
Uncover the dreams, hopes, and desires you really have…about writing a book this year (2017) – with us, at The Lipsticking Society. Subscribe for newsletter updates in the box below.