Writing

People with whom I reconnect – at reunions, on the street, via email, on the phone – invariably ask me the same question:

“Are you still writing?”

The question always catches me off guard.

These are not always people I grew up with, they can be people I have met and known at any point in my life. Why? Because at any -- and all -- points in my life I have always been writing in one way or another.

All of these people, who obviously have way more faith and confidence in me and my writing abilities than I do, are always sure that I must have published a book by now. Or that I am going to publish a book. Any time soon. Or just in general.

They all tell me how they are waiting for my book, how they want to read it.

And I think they are genuinely sincere. I mean, why would you ever tell someone that unless you actually meant it?

It leaves me rather flummoxed.

Once again, I have disappointed someone.

For I have no book for them to read.

At the same time, yes, of course, I am still writing.

I don’t know how to “not write.” I write all the time, sometimes on paper, sometimes on the computer, sometimes just in my head. I don’t think I am ever “not writing.” To me it is the same as breathing. Although I think I would give up breathing before I gave up writing.

I don’t know why I don’t have a book for all of these kind, supportive, inquisitive people to read.

I write stories. I write essays. I write poems even, sometimes. On occasion. Especially when I am particularly inspired or compelled to. I have written at least one novel. I never did anything with it, them. In fact, I don’t really like it, them. I have written many, many short stories. Some of which I particularly like. Some of which make me cringe when I stumble upon them and start to re-read them.

I honest to god think I could write all day every day and I would be perfectly happy. Content. Alive. Doing what I was meant to do. Unfortunately, I am not independently wealthy, and I have two kids to support. I love being a mom. I love my job as a librarian. But still, all I ever really want to do is… write.

And I do write. As time allows. As I allow myself time. But I always put myself and my writing last in the grand scheme of things.

This is wrong. This is bad. I am consciously doing this.

This is my life, and it is more than half over. What is my problem?

I love words. I love putting words together to convey thoughts, ideas, feelings. I love the physical act of writing with a pen, preferably a simple black Bic pen. I love the physical act of typing. I love seeing words on the page, be they in my illegible scrawl or on the computer screen. I love tinkering with them, toying with them, changing them, rearranging them, reading over them. Again and again. I love trying to express myself with words.

I love reading words, writing words, using words in a sentence, listening to words, and looking words up. I just really love words. Any way you slice them. Words, words, words.

I love translating life into words.

I love translating thoughts and feelings into words.

I love sharing these words with other people.

So, what exactly is my problem?

I don’t know.

Lack of confidence.

Lack of self-esteem.

An inability to seize the day. To take advantage of my true love and passion in life.

I don’t know. Any of the above. All of the above.

Quite frankly, the only response that makes any sense to me at all is the one I learned at West Point as a scared, naïve, new Plebe twenty-five years ago:

“No excuse, sir!”