I’ve written 22,000+ tweets. Hundreds of blog posts. Published a book.
There are 24 entries in my “blog post ideas” text file. A few one-liners, a few with a couple bullet points, and two that are brain dumps of half-formed paragraphs and unconnected ideas.
I spend a fair amount of my life in the creation of content. Whether it’s an adventure, a tragedy, a haunting idiosyncrasy or a moment of enlightenment … always thinking, would this make an interesting video, an epic blog post? Is this a chapter in my next book?
But I’m still surprised, confused, upset, intimidated, when someone calls me a writer.
I’m comfortable being called an attorney – I mean, I have a degree and a license and passed a test and have the certificate that says I earned that one.
I’m obviously a mom – gave birth, raising the kid, spending tons of time and energy full of guilt that I’m not doing the right thing. I’ve totally earned that one.
Sometime during the last 6 years I morphed into an entrepreneur. Not when I started my business … back then I was just an independent attorney/financial advisor … but over the last 6 years I embraced the crazy, risk-taking, addiction of the startup entrepreneur.
Back in November 2009 I became a blogger. After refusing to write a word for 6 months (well, except for a few thousand tweets), I came back from a live event and reported my truth. And burned some bridges. And dozens of people commented, emailed, @ replied, RT’d, DM’d me how my truth resonated with their truth. I was just the one who spoke the controversy they were thinking but not saying. And, as such, I became a blogger.
I’ll even let you call me a coach. That one took a while … because I’ve never taken a training program, or been certified, or had some entity or organization or person proclaim me an official coach. It wasn’t until I was paid specifically to coach clients, until I got those first emails “just one thing you said made me back the money for this entire coaching program” and “thank you so much for making everything clear” that I realized, I do it intuitively. There is something about who I am, what I bring with me when I walk into a room or get on the phone with a client, that brings caring and courage and clarity. I was born a coach.
The latest addition to my twitter bio is aspiring adventurer. This is the part of me that I forgot when I decided to grow up at age 25 and be who I was “supposed” to be, instead of what I thought was unrealistic and impossible. This is what my last 3 months have been about, remembering the crazy EPW, the one who wants to go past the warning signs and jump out of planes and live a life of ecstasy. Yes, at heart, I am an adventurer.
And then we come to that whole “writer” thing.
Augh.
I am sitting here in the cantina at Chevy’s, nursing a margarita to lubricate the writing of this post.
And I understand why so many writers become alcoholics.
Because unlike law, motherhood, blogging, coaching, adventuring …
Writing is an art.
It is fundamentally a creative, inspired endeavor.
There is no objectivity. There is no done. There is no decision.
There is no degree or test or certification or award that tells you when you are a writer.
It is something that just happens. Or something we are cursed. Or blessed. Or born to be.
Writing takes everything.
As an INFJ personality, my core, my truth is complicated and personal and protected. To reveal that on the page is incredibly intimate. And consuming. Like I’m possessed by an urge that’s both irresistible and abusive to my sanity.
And after the creation, I’m spent. Hungover. I need a nap or a drink or an intervention.
And then once the post goes live? Once I tweet it and post it to facebook and email it to my list?
Then comes the obsessive refreshing of the page to see if I have any comments. The checking my @ replies for retweets.
I usually have to turn off my internet (and I mean turn off the freaking router) and go to Starbucks or Target or watch a movie on iTunes to give people enough time to actually read the blog post and have a chance to comment, before I freak because no one has commented in the 30 seconds since the post went live.
When people say “I want to be a writer” I look at them, flabbergasted, as if they have said “I want to be a heroin addict” or something equally insane. I mean, who in the world would wish this on themselves? Who would wish this on anyone?
And then I look back on my life. A childhood of writing short stories and poetry and unfinished novels. The reading of thousands of books. Taking classes in creative writing where I felt that I failed because I got an A- instead of an A. Having everything I’ve ever submitted for publication to be accepted, in papers and magazines and newsletters and blogs and books, and yet never been paid for any of them.
I’ve been a writer my whole life.
But I never felt crowned a writer.
… 0f course, maybe all of this angst is total bullsh*t.
Maybe writing is not a terrible curse. Maybe it is not anything. Maybe this is just something that I am, something that I have to get over.
And maybe the process of getting over it is the painful part.
Once I get over it, accept it, embrace it … then it’s just something that’s a true fact. Part of me. Like having blond hair or speed reading or loving spicy food or understanding particle physics.
So that was my 2010 New Year’s Resolution. Not a goal, or a thing to quit.
My 2010 New Year’s Resolution was to get over the fact that I really am a writer.
And … isn’t it interesting how I phrased that?
“Get over the fact…” <– That’s not a decision. That’s a proposal to decide in the future. wtf.
So screw that resolution.
Let’s make a declaration right now.
I am a writer.
And that fact is not something that is terrible. That fact is not a curse.
It’s just a fact. A part of who I am. A thing that I do.
I’m not saying that I’m the most brilliant writer that ever lived, or that everyone is going to like how I write, or that I’m going to create powerful prose every day.
Writing is just one of the many ways in which I live my truth.
So the next time you see me lament on twitter about how hard it is to write, the next time you hear me whine about the last blog post … call me on that angst filled bullsh*t.
Writing is just one thing that I do.
#thatisall
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Are you struggling with being a writer? Are you refusing to embrace a part of who you are? Are you manufacturing angst in your life by refusing to accept part of your calling?
I’d love to hear your feedback, thoughts, comments below!
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I'm Elizabeth Potts Weinstein, a writer, teacher, and coach.