Today I heard someone say boldly and clearly, “I am a writer. That’s what I am.” It was powerful in its confidence and simplicity. Something inside of me lit up, as I recognized, so am I. It’s not about what kind of writer I might be, the entirely subjective quality of my writing, or even what I say; rather, it defines a part of me that is undeniable.
I often avoid writing here because I feel uncomfortable “competing” with blogs that seem to capture that rustic ranch-meets-PEI-meets-brimming country house filled with cherubic children, gobs of animals, views that stretch on forever, cookbook-writing-homeschoolin’ mamas, and lists of books that I should have and haven’t read yet. Then I find myself grumpy because I am stuck in the comparison game yet again and recognize that sometimes I am just a little uncomfortable in my own skin. My house is “not quite decorated.” I don’t have chickens or a goat. I don’t have a porch that looks out over my dream combination of farmland, mountains, a forest, an ocean, and a lighthouse complete with windsong, birdsong, blustery storms, vibrant seasons (with the perfect hot and dry California weather every other week), peace and quiet, yet still only a stone’s throw away from a darling community, a farmers’ market, and plenty of other conveniences. Sounds reasonable.
There are days when my discomfort taints my sense of taste, every book I pick up makes me itch and I stumble around half-completing tasks with very little pizazz. Today is one of those days. And yet…I am a writer.
This act is art, therapy, release, purging, connection. Time to just write. No over-thinking, no worries, no fretting about style or structure. Just write. I might as well say, just be. I will breathe through the words, discomfort the discomfort but calling it out, dance on the page.