A Writer Who
An old picture from a trip that always inspires me to write.
When you ask my kids what they want to be, you get varying answers: a professional ball player, a referee, an astronaut, a Disney imagineer, a video game writer or designer. I love seeing the ways their interests evolve through the years as they develop the personalities that started shining when they were babies. My own lists of professions when I was a kid included flight attendant, veterinarian (although I have never been an animal person), and nurse (although blood is also not my thing). It’s just fun to dream as a kid and then see how those dreams play out or change into adulthood.
But the one thing I have consistently wanted to be ever since I knew it was a possibility was a writer. I didn’t really think much about the making money part, which is probably a piece of why my dad encouraged me to consider other careers, ones with retirement plans and steady income, and I ultimately followed his advice into a job I loved.
I never stopped writing though, and I never stopped loving it with my whole heart. But I did struggle to figure out the role it was supposed to play in my life. If all I wanted was a hobby, I think journaling alone would have satisfied me, and in fact I love journaling and still journal every day. But I didn’t want writing to be a hobby alone. I wanted to share what I did with other people.
When I pictured writing as a little girl, I imagined myself writing books, and people reading them, and me knowing those people. I would talk to people about my books, and they would talk back to me, and we would be united in the joy of words and of writing and reading.
Now when I think about writing, as a grown woman with kids who write their own books, and a husband who is a published author and a freelance columnist, I consider what I still want from my writing. I’d still love to publish a book, sure, but when I think about my writing, I still see it in much the same way that I did when I was young. I write to share with others, to see connection, to share in the human joys of this messy, imperfect, and absolutely beautiful life. I write to say, “Here I am. I see you too.” I write to be your friend, even if we never meet, even if you never read this.
Do I get it right? Not even close. Sometimes I read a piece over and have to consider how to tone down the passions, how to smooth over the general crankiness that tightens my jaw and wearies my eyes by the end of the day when I settle onto the couch to write. Most of the time, I'm not sure that I’m communicating my thoughts well or saying what I really mean.
But I’m also not sure that getting it right was the main point. The glory is in the effort, in the fingers on a keyboard, words sliding out from the tip of a pen onto the page. The joy of writing is in the practice of trying to share a piece of what I see, and in sharing it, learning to see more, to see better, to see the other people in this absolutely amazing world.
