This Writer May Not

The truth is…I may not make it. I may never get my novels or poems published—likelihood is I won’t.

Do I give up now? Make my life a whole lot easier, less complicated. Enjoyable, even. That question dogs me every day. And it dogs me because I still forget what’s important.

Years ago, when I was going through a tough time, a friend told me, “When you’re going through tough times what’s important has a way of becoming crystal clear. Pay attention.”

Coming from someone else, I might not have paid attention, but this friend had the most heartbreaking thing happen to her: his babysitter shook her son. I paid attention and promised myself I would never forget what was truly important to me.

Yes, her words stuck and ten years later, as I laid on my couch, doing every last little thing the doctor told me to do in an effort to get better, her words came back to me.

Crystal clear, all right. No doubts whatsoever, as to what was important to me.

Publishing my work wasn’t even close to the top. But writing? It was and what’s more, it hurt not to do it. Actually hurt, physically. Hurt more than doing it, which is sometimes painful. And I realized it wasn’t just what I do, it is what and who I am. That doesn’t depend on whether anyone else thinks I’m a writer or not. It is how I see myself and have always seen myself. In words. No…, in written words. When, I couldn’t get the words down, it wasn’t the writing that atrophied, it was me.

Still, sometimes, I forget. I let the need to prove myself (you know, to all those doubters who asked you what on earth you do all that time you’re locked away writing and where is the product you’ve been working on so long, anyway? Are you sure, you’re not napping in there? Or, my favorite…I know you’re writing, but it’s not as if you have a real job like I do… and I really need you to …) get the best of me.

Interruptions are the most frustrating…the phone calls; the 'I just need to talk to you for a minute', etc. But then, I realized my anger was making the interruption actually take me away longer. Often, I was as much angry with myself because I had wasted some uninterrupted time on non-productive stuff like…computer solitaire, e-mails, IMs. So, the deal I made with myself about interruptions is; I don’t get to rage unless I’ve put every minute of uninterrupted time I have into actually writing. And raging can be so self-gratifying, can't it?

Truth is, to write I have done as every other write has had to do. I have given up huge parts of my life in order to write and still care for my elderly mother, husband, kids, pets and life, I have created added stress and a sort of chaos in my life, that maybe, I shouldn’t have. I might not have, had I known another way to live. But, I just can’t do it. I just can’t give up. Well, at least I can’t give up the writing.

I wonder and worry if I’ve done a great disservice to my loved ones and myself, but I have to hope that if I didn’t write, it would be worse. And I hope that they try to understand as best they can.

I find it sad that is there is really no way for anyone, except another writer, to understand that need. Not to say they don’t try, but truthfully, and I hope I’m not doing the, oh, I’m so different; I’m so special kind of thinking here.

I like to think there are all kinds of passions that are similar: acting, singing, golf, (hey, I don’t even pretend to understand that. If the goal is to get the lowest score, why start?) Hopefully, all dreams are similar, but I don’t know. I only know my dream.

Life can make it hard to hold on to dreams. The longer I live, the farther away my dreams seem, the more important I think holding on to them is. They keep fading a bit, seeming more and more impossible and farther away. Truthfully, while we were waiting for a diagnosis and I was unable to do much more than lay on the couch, all I really wanted to do was to write. I didn’t give one damn if I ever published. I just wanted to put pen to paper and pour out my heart and the fact that I couldn’t even string two words together in my head, frankly, scared me.

So, when I’m done raging at the interruption, the latest emergency or need that derails my writing, I put in the time, pour out my heart some more and bless every lucky star in the sky I’m writing.

Just maybe, that’s the success.