It's About Time...

Several years ago, I attended a community event where we started with introductions, telling the group our name, where we were from, and what we do for work or fun that defines our identity. I was a stay-at-home mom to three kids at the time, all of them preschool age and under, so I prepared myself to say that I spend my life as a mother and wife. When it came my turn to share, I began with the basics, and then told the group I am a writer.

It sort of popped out, surprising only myself, really. I had worked for several years as a high school English teacher after moving to our small town, and when my husband and I were pregnant with our oldest, we made the decision for me to finish the school year and then stay home. After all three kids were born, I began writing about motherhood for a blog I called The Optimistic Momma, sharing pieces that I felt were real and raw, as I called them, opening up about transitioning from a job that gave me a creative outlet and socialization to wiping butts and keeping up with laundry and housework full time. Of course there was so much more to it than that, and now that I’m out of the trenches of raising young children, I sometimes long for them to need me as they once did, for the tinny voices of tiny kids running around, and the snuggle-in movie nights from years gone by.

The thing that has not changed, however, is my need for artistic expression and the creative challenge that writing provides. My blog grew stagnant for a while during the few years I opened and built a business, but that did not mean I wasn’t writing. I took several classes as a way to brush the rust off my work and re-hone my skills. I learned how to edit stronger, to look for readers and reviewers who could help, offering me positivity while still challenging me to deepen the content. I drafted stories and poems, fictional narratives, and memoir. I shared them with instructors and classmates, and I listened as they picked apart my work. Constructive feedback fueled me to keep trying and to write more. The comments grew increasingly positive, and the push to work on something I felt proud to publish became a recurring theme.

In one of my classes, I submitted a ten-page piece that was scheduled for workshopping with the rest of the members, some of them published authors themselves, one of them who worked on screenwriting, one who had acted in some films. I fully expected them to tear my work apart, to tell me that I didn’t meet the standards, that I didn’t try hard enough, to give up on this work of writing. I remember rushing to a spot in the Dallas airport where I could hop on the Zoom, ill-prepared for the class meeting, running a few minutes late. I logged on just as they finished the introductory part of the class, and immediately we went into the workshopping portion of the meeting. “You are a writer,” one of the members told me during the session. Someone else asked, “Why aren’t you publishing this?” I wrote down several of their comments, all positive, and tucked them away. My kids, who were with me, were staring at me when I ended the meeting. “Mom,” my daughter said, “you really should be a writer.” I remember smiling at her, nodding as I called my husband. I told him I had made a choice, that I wanted to commit to writing, and he simply said, “It’s about time.”

I felt very private about my writing work for a long time. When people asked what I’d been up to since selling my business, I just told them that I was home and taking care of my family. I held my writing journey close to my chest, not believing I could actually complete the writing of a novel, the goal and dream I’ve had since I was little.

But now – now that I’m really doing this – now that I’m working on what I expect will only be my first novel, I’m ready to share that I am writing. More than that, I am a writer. I don’t say it with surprise or embarrassment. Fear? Maybe. Yes. It’s vulnerable to share writing. It’s something so internal that we as writers put out for the potential world to see, for our readers to take in, to internalize and critique and judge. And it’s hard. But it’s also hard NOT sharing the stories that dance around in my mind, the characters that I get to make up and set to life.

I am a writer. I say that with passion, with pride about what is to come, as I look forward to sharing my work and my heart.