Writers Write

I have been writing this blog, in one format or another, for 13 years. T.H.I.R.T.E.E.N. From the earliest and far more frequent blogspot days up until the sporadic postings of today, I’ve been “a blogger”. Now I call this “my website”, rather than my blog, but it is whatever it is: restaurant reccos, film and TV reviews, rants, raves and, of course, my book club. There have been celeb photobombs and selfies, mini-travelogues and motherhood musings. But most of all, it’s been a place I can come to write. Kernels of ideas, nuggets of wisdom, food for thought – name your metaphor, it’s been all that (and more) for me. Often I wonder if there’s anybody out there. So to those who read, bookmark and forward to friends, I thank you. And to the many who ask “why don’t you just write a book?”, I say: believe me, I’m trying. And maybe one day I will. But in the meantime, I write what I can. For myself, for the people who pay me, and for you.

I’m trying to embrace my vulnerability without diffusing it with humour. Sounds cheesy. And feels gross. It’s really really hard. And takes a shit-ton of practice. In the meantime, there’s this…

“Writers write. She’s always known that. She used to live by the rule, writing faithfully every day. Jotting in her journal, completing assignments, even copying out interesting sayings, song lyrics, or what she deemed to be poetic. Writers write. So she wrote. Snippets of overheard conversations. Concerns and frustrations about lovers and family. How she wanted to be treated. How she was treated. How she treated others. No matter what was happening in her life, she was a writer. And writers write. So she wrote too. Articles, reviews, screenplays, television pilots. Imaginary dialogue she wished she herself had the balls to speak aloud. Confessions she dreamed she would hear. She was a writer. She defined herself by the term. She told anyone who asked. She never shirked away from her daily page requirements. That’s just the way it was. Because writers write.

Until they don’t.

Until they find themselves overcome by the day to day living of their lives. She got lucky. She worked freelance. She met the man of her dreams, who loved her right back. They got married. Bought a loft, then a house, and then one more. Got a dog. Had a baby. Had two more. And soon the words on the page became less frequent. At first, she couldn’t find the time. But then she couldn’t find the words. Letters on pages became by meals on tables. Overheard conversations turned into recipe adaptations. The joy of looking up after a day spent at her keyboard, living an imaginary life and creating characters, dialogue, and scenes were replaced with school runs, grocery shops and bedtimes. Meetings turned into appointments.

Just like that she went from a writer who writes to a mom who mothers. From someone who was a respected “something”, to an unheard, oft-ignored nothing. The most important job in the world, she’d hear when she muttered she was “just a mom”. But she knew better. It was so obvious. It was a volunteer position. Where she worked for tiny tyrants who ruled her life. Her home felt like a prison at times, her family its warden.

The years went past and the kids grew more independent. Sort of. They didn’t always want her anymore, though they still needed her. They always would, in some capacity. She didn’t need them, but she wanted them. She loved them. But she was starting to wonder what she had given up to “have it all”. Her freedom. Her body. Her mind. She knew writers needed to write, but she found it almost impossible to do so. And when she did sit down, hands on keyboard and screen glowing brightly, she found herself in a spiral of rage. Her imagination dulled, she would spill out her feelings about her family, her friends, her life and her choices. Typing through tears, she’d feel ridiculous, painting herself as a victim, when she actually loved her life….Most of the time. She would re-read her words and set forth editing, putting a shiny, positive spin on each and every one. And then she’d delete it all, knowing she’d start again, someday soon.

Because writers write. That’s just what they do. “