I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was eleven years old. I wrote a paragraph personifying a tree in a sweet, simple, yet unique way. I was given verbal accolades by my teacher and since that moment in the sixth grade I was hooked on the written word.
My perceptions of what a writer’s life looks life have evolved, modified, and progressed.
For me writer’s fall into two camps.
The first camp is the erudite, stable forces of nature the likes of which are C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkein, William Carlos Williams, Annie Dillard, etc.
The second camp is the tortured souls who dabble in alcohol and drugs to feed their demons or hide from them. This is by and large the largest of the camps. These are Jack Karouc, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Stephen King, Kurt Vonnegut, etc, and more etc.
I stare down at these two camps from my spot on top of the hill, marveling at their majesty and might, and I wonder which direction I need to travel. To the erudites, or to the tortured.
The transparent truth is I belong to neither camp. I am a full time teacher, a mother of a two kids under the age of ten, a wife, a daughter, and a friend. My plates are full. Full and overflowing over the dishes and staining the table with their rich colors.
I write in the in-between moments of my life. Those soft moments when the expectations of my roles don’t tug too strongly at my sleeve and I can tap out some words. I can’t claim either camp as a course. One requires too much time away from my God given roles, the other requires me to lose my mind amid poisons. As much as I wish I had the time to engage in either one, I must remain where I am at, and milk those soft moments with as much as energy as I can.
Because if I don’t, if I don’t write, something in me, the same darkness that propels camp two, begins to bubble and seethe in my insides. It’s a dormant volcano that when enough pressure builds from underneath it bursts forth in waves of molten passion and puffs of dark clouds.
For now I have to be my own camp, neither one meets my needs as a writer. And, more importantly, just because I haven’t set forth to either camp, doesn’t mean I am not a writer. After all, a writer writes. It’s as simple as that.
While I wrote this I was refereeing my two children and talking with my mother-in-law, all while trying to write this blog.
Welcome to my writer’s life.