Excerpts from three recent conversations, and my, aren’t they revealing:
* * *
Mom, gazing at me with something like amazement: You write so much on your blog.
Me: Oh, am I overwriting?
Mom: Nothing like that; it’s just that you always have so much to say. (Subtext: Yet nothing to say for yourself otherwise, especially when I call you.)
* * *
Friend R-, who knows me all too well: So, how are you, anyhow?
Me: Yesterday, I wasn’t doing so well — oh wait, I wrote about that on my blog — never mind; you can read about it there.
Friend R-: Gives me all kinds of good-natured s**t, ending with something along the lines of:
…and now you’re going to process and talk to yourself through your blog instead of engage in actual conversations with people?
* * *
Writer-friend after a few drinks: Why aren’t you married, anyhow? You’re pretty…
Me, wondering what “pretty” has to do with it: Uhm, because I have trouble relating?
Writer-friend: THAT’s why you write.
* * *
All this reminds me of my actress-friend from the play last week. She got hammered afterwards, and I drove her home to her peeved husband. She said to me, “You get to go home, pet your cat, and dive into bed with a novel. I have to go home and EXPRESS MYSELF.”
This from an actress, an extroverted person. Imagine me, laughing my arse off yet secretly relieved that I didn’t have to express myself verbally or relate to real people anymore for that evening.
0 comments on “Why I’m a Writer – ??”
Lisa, you make me grin. I regularly tell people, “You can read about it on my blog” because I’m too lazy to launch into it again, when the writing of it has already taken so much out of me.
I envy that you’re young and you know you’re a writer and you’ll probably continue to know it. I knew it, then lost it, then knew it and wrote some books and articles and stuff, then lost it again, and lost myself. Now that I’ve found it again, I’m getting pretty old.
Which is discouraging. So, even if you are a writer, at least you know it. That counts for something, eh?
Thanks, Eve. It’s funny how we envy others. I find I admire the 20-somethings who know they’re writers and are paying their dues early. When I was in my 20s, I was moving around and still trying out different careers…I didn’t have a clue. Though I liked to write, I didn’t know I was a writer…
Ah well, so it goes, I suppose. We come to our paths at different ages. In your case, twice! Call that great; so many people don’t figure out their true natures, ever.
The grass is always greener on the other side, ain’t it Lis’? With my little bro and his wife moved back into my house, I have the best and worst of both worlds.
Missing my solitude,
-griz
Oh man, griz, I’m feeling for you! Especially after some of the horror stories you’ve told! Lack of privacy is especially tortuous when you have no choice in the matter…