In which I...

Also known as: 'Why I’m not a writer… yet.' 

Also known as: 'My dad rocks.'

You’re going to love this. Well, maybe not. I didn’t at first. But then the sting wore off and I got over myself and realized that well, Dad was right again.

I both love and not-love that.

I not-love it because I do so love being right. My horoscope today actually had the words, “Of course you’re right and they’re wrong, but you’re not going to convince them otherwise.” (That’s the beauty of generic, pointless horoscopes. They apply to everyone. And really, who doesn’t enjoy a little validation with their morning coffee?)

I love it because my dad is, well, awesome. And wise. Though he’d never take credit for it, which I’m pretty sure is part and parcel of being wise in the first place.

One evening this summer my parents and I sat around a campfire chatting about things serious and not so. At some point we touched on a writing project I was considering; I had received feedback from a publisher I contacted that two other ladies were pulling together a short book on infertility and would be interested in joining. I joined the discussion and was excited at the prospect of being able to provide my perspective of a being a complete family of two.

I ended up bowing out of the project thanks in large part to the conversation at the fire that night. My dad started by bluntly pointing out how ridiculous it would be for me to take on a writing project that would add at least 10-15 hours of committed writing time in an already-jammed schedule.  This I agreed with and really, I should have realized it on my own. One of my tortoise moments, I suppose.

The next part was harder to hear.  My dad started talking about how writers can't help but write; they climb out of bed in the middle of the night because they need to get something down on paper; the search for just the perfect word or image claws at them.  Writers choose writing over almost every other activity; it fills their days, distracts their minds.  They can't help it.  It's what makes a writer a writer.

I know this too.  I've read Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet.  I've been ignoring it, but it doesn't mean that the niggling reminder of it hasn't stayed with me.  As someone who's dreamed of being a writer since third grade, when Mr. S. unveiled the power of words on an almost-daily basis, this understanding of what a writer looks like is knowledge I'd rather be without.

"Maybe one day it will come," I said at the campfire, feeling rather deflated. 

Now, several months after that conversation, I feel less deflated.  I love blogging. It's a fantastic outlet for me to toy with words and have some fun.  I enjoy the moments where I ponder what to blog about and the moments where I actually sit and pull the words together in a way that brings me joy.  But that's blogging, not writing.  And to me, there's a difference.  (Sorry if that deflates you.)

The difference is the characters that have been with me for years.  Characters who have stories that beg to be told and yet are trapped within my imagination until that day when I actually become a writer; when the urge to tell their story is stronger than the urge to blog or sleep or eat or anything else.

Back in July I took the 'I'm not a writer' news as a finality.  Really, though, it's not final at all... the timing just isn't right.  And the Lord knows that.  For now, I've been given a different set of tasks: to work full time, to care for my husband, to go to school.  It doesn't mean that one day the Lord won't flip that switch and say, "Thelma, it's time."  I look forward to that day with equal parts excitement and terror.

So, for now I'm just a blogger.
It's awesome.
I love it.
And realizing that just because I'm blogger now doesn't mean I'll never be a writer one day down the road is priceless.

Thanks for the perspective, Dad. ♥