An oldie...but a goodie.

This post is from my old website... but I like it so here it is for you to enjoy...


“I just don’t have time to write anymore, between teaching, practicing, rehearsing, taking public transit and fitting in what time with my friends I can, there never seems to be enough time to pick up a pen anymore.” I confessed to Monica
“What about writing while on the bus? I’m sure you could jot things down then.” she replied.
I hate being told what to, or more accurately, I hate the mere suggestion of what I could/should/might like to do. No matter how good your advice is, if its unsolicited it will promptly be rejected. This situation being no different: I lied in response. “I only EVER take transit in rush hour, with bags, BIG bags and I NEVER get a seat. So that would be impossible” Success! Another opinion rejected! Monica simply shrugged, though I’m confident she could see through my ploy.
Now,I’m starting to think that my resistance to such input is a bit of a problem, but its all a part of being so brilliantly stubborn (okay,okay so maybe brilliantly stubborn is an oxymoron, but I think my stubbornness is a sign of good character). But of course her comment stuck in the back of my head and a month I found myself the proud owner of (yet another) Moleskine journal, pocket sized this time, scribbling like a madwoman on the bus balancing with my arm halfheartedly linked around a pole, a 30 kilo bag dislocating the opposite shoulder, in a state of utter bliss because I.... ladies and gentleman...I was writing.

I’ve always written. I have notebooks filled with thoughts and stories from the time I was six (SIX!!!). Every major event in my life has been well documented, and I can easily reference any period in times of need (arguments, breakups, blackmail etc.). What’s interesting is not the volume of writing, but rather the quality of it. How, even at the age of ten, (TEN!!!) I strove to not just tell my story but tell it well; with similes, metaphors, tone and distinct style . I came to love parentheses and side notes, triple dots (...), rhyme, onomatopoeia, and any other literary device I could get my hands, or rather, pens on. Still, I never considered myself a writer.
There are women in the world who buy skirts, shoes, shawls bags or boots without, despite or even in-spite of necessity. I couldn’t call myself female if I didn’t like those things; but my problem is not clothes or accesories , I have an uncontrollable urge to spend money on pens, stationary, notebooks, books and anything to do with the very act of writing. My collection contains writing utensils in varying thickness ( 0.01 being my favorite) and colour (Turquoise or ultra fine black are the colours of choice), notebooks, (Moleskine’s in all shapes and sizes) stationary, ( Good God what they can do with paper these days!) and books (I have over 500 books, maybe a hundred of which I have read) in all sense of the word I am addicted .
To leave the house without a notebook and an assortment of pens (minimum 21) seems unfathomable to me. Words get stuck in my head like songs, I cannot control the fact that I have ‘words of the day’. To spend an entire day writing, be it at home, in a cafe, restaurant, on a street or beach feels like a day well spent to me. I fill hours re-writing my thoughts, re-wording, re-punctuating, until they are worthy of the ink and pages I am addicted to. Still I’d tell you “I’d like to be a writer, someday.”
But I live to to write. To find the words to embody the richness of what I experience. But I’m afraid to call myself a... Writer. I fear I’m not worthy of such a title, I have not suffered this art, I am not ready to face the scrutiny of others, I... am just scared of the title and responsibility of : Writer. I fear that calling myself a writer would bring greater judgement (from me and others) of what I produce and how I produce it (How would and could I cope with the rejection of the language that is so dear to me?) I fear it because the very admittance of the thing would force me to demand a new dedication to and a new quality from my work. Which is another issue entirely.
I’ve always wanted to speak to the world through the pages of novels, newspapers and magazines. But a career? How could I allow myself that? Burdened by the knowledge and idea that I am woman fortunate to have an education, and a North American lifestyle. How could I pledge my life to something that would bring me such great pleasure without giving to those who are less fortunate than I. No, I should become a peace-corps worker, a career political protester, a teacher, a nurse in Africa, a Doctor without Borders, a psychiatrist who helps build personal borders, something, someone, anyone that means something. Someone that somehow makes some kind of difference. But then, between enraged scribbles on the Skytrain, I looked up.
I saw a men reading newspapers, women reading books, people of different ages, sizes, shapes, sexes, races and classes reading magazines. In fact on this busy morning, as all busy mornings, it was easier to count the people who weren’t reading than the ones who were. All these people reading the very words that I love so deeply, all these people making the written word part of their day, part of their routine. All of them, and more, all the people on all the trains, in offices, streets, homes, classrooms, toilets, in every corner and nook of the world need and, more importantly, want words. I thought, ‘If just a fraction of them would read what I have to say, then I could make a difference. I could educate like a teacher, heal like a doctor or psychiatrist, fight for ideas like a protester. With the very use of language breaking all borders physical, geographical, psychological.’
Since that morning what has become more clear to me is that in pursuing what I love, I serve the world too. To be happy individually allows all others around us to do the same. By filling my cup so full of pleasure and joy for life that it overflows into others is the only way to successfully help others. Teacher, Doctor, Nurse, Psychiatrist would never fill my cup the way that Writer would and does. We are not born to cower in the shadow of our calling fear it while envying others for theirs. How ridiculous does it seem to reject our true calling and passion so that we do what is seemingly, stereotypically right? Ludicrous!
“Acceptance is art.” A good friend of mine once wisely wrote, and while I’m still working on my masterpiece of acceptance; I am ready to accept that my punctuation is not perfect, my vocabulary could improve and that my flow and structure need work. I am ready to do that work, hear what people have to say, I am ready to suffer for my art.

I am ready to accept that: I am a Writer.