Maybe you consider yourself a writer. When you have to list three things you are, Writer is always one of them. There have been times in my life when I have considered myself a Writer. Now is not one of them. I was a Writer when I had to be. When I was in high school and had assignments which demanded writing. When I took a summer institute on teaching writers, and was told I had to be one first. I was a Writer when I felt passionate about something I wanted to share, knowing others were going through similar feelings, and wrote pieces about the emotional roller coaster of the adoptive parent experience. I was a Writer when I needed a way to make sense of my emotions, and wrote poetry about parenting, Alzheimer’s Disease, and people who confused me. I was a Writer a few times when funny things happened and I thought somebody might get a kick out of the story. One summer I was a writer when I wrote a great 25 page children’s book beginning. Unfortunately I really had no plan for the whole story, and it died in a computer I used to own, right after the part where the six-year-old protagonist is transported to the alternate world where she discovers she is really a new queen and expected to rule. It may possibly be in a folder on Dropbox. At any rate, it’s dead to me. Lately I am only a writer. My writing has appeared as occasional quick but witty responses to someone’s Facebook post. I am not proud.
I want to be a Writer again. Writing makes me think things through, and makes me think in different ways. It allows for revision before my words hit my audience, and preserves that final thought in a permanent way. I want to say something that matters, makes you think, or makes you feel, even if it only matters to a few, or makes you feel just for a flicker, or have one fleeting thought.
I don’t have a clue what I am going to write about on this blog. I am just going to begin, and hope that my writing knows where it needs to go.