I'm A Writer, Right?

The truth is I find it hard to call myself a writer.

I mean obviously, I'm sitting here writing this blog, but does that seriously make me a writer?

The reason why I say this is because I have never heard anyone call me a writer.  I mean, I've been called many a thing, but never a writer.

Strangely enough, over the last year stories of writers finding their voice have visited me in one book or another.  I began 2019 with a book called  Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert and I ended it with Surfside Sisters by Nancy Thayer.  These two novels book-ended 2019 (consequently my year of failing as a writer - just read my post The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly to find out why) and it haunted me.  I could hear the voices of these authors calling me to write, to find my voice, to connect with others and to let my voice be heard but I couldn’t quite find the words or the courage to make it happen.

I suppose my ability to label myself as competent or valued in a particular way stems from a deep seated need for validation from others.  To see value in myself I often wait for it to be seen by others.  Have you ever been there?  I mean, have you ever doubted yourself and then waited until someone else was able to believe in you first?

Come on people, I know I'm not alone.

Even in Joanne Goodman’s novel The Home for Unwanted Girls I heard and understood how we define our ourselves by how others see us.  How other's opinions of us validate our existence and influence our choices.  Although not explicitly about being writer, this novel helped me realize the importance of writing your own story and not letting others do it for you (or to you).  I understood how finding your voice means empowering yourself by being in control of your life narrative.

Hold on, I need a moment of brutal honesty here folks before I continue...

Even though I truly believe in the power of writing one's own narrative, of being the one who is calling the shots, paradoxically, I often don’t feel safe to do so.  I don't always feel safe believing in myself. As I mentioned, I don't exactly feel right calling myself a writer.

What am I so afraid of?  Why do I have this inner voice of self doubt?  Why is it that I rely so heavily on the validation of others?  I have spent a lifetime writing my thoughts down in journals.  I have written way too many essays for school.  In my youth I wrote love letters a plenty to old boyfriends.  I have created countless lessons and assignments for an endless number of students.  I write a letter of gratitude to each of my daughters every year for their birthday.  So I know that I write.

How can I have written so much and yet not consider myself a writer?  I mean if this blog not testament enough to my commitment to writing then what is?

I suppose I may only come to accept myself when I reach a certain level of accomplishment that will validate me.  I believe that this stems from how I was raised.  I know I am loved dearly but I also know that the way to gain attention, approval and recognition is often by achieving something.

So here's the part where I admit that I check the stats for this blog.  Actually, I check pretty frequently.  Like almost every day.  Okay fine, sometimes more than once a day.

Why?

I'm looking to see if anyone is reading what I've written.  I’m searching for which posts they are reading, how often they are visiting the blog, if they've commented on a particular post, and if they have subscribed.  I'm hoping to reach 50 subscribers by June 30, 2020 and the process so far has been slow and a bit nerve wracking.  Because deep down inside I need to know that someone is looking.  That someone sees me and acknowledges what I'm trying to accomplish here.  That this blog matters.  That I matter.

Which makes me question what happens if no one is reading? Does it even really matter if I reach 50 subscribers?  Isn't the fact that I'm writing this blog at all good enough?

If in the end no one validates my work then is it of any value at all?  As my words fall on this page if no one is out there reading them then do they actually make a sound?

I suppose the answer is yes.

Because even if no one else reads this blog I know that at least I have it for me.  And if not for me then it is a legacy to be left behind for the people I love the most.  It's has become part of my life narrative.

It's at times like this that I can't help but think about my maternal grandmother who gave me so much.    She was illiterate and could not speak English.  I have so many fond memories of her.  She taught me so much.  She showed me how to be uma mulher de guerra and quite possibly the most domesticated feminist you'll ever meet.  And yet, as close as we were there was a distance between us.

I cannot tell you how many times there were things that were left unspoken between us.  There was so much I wanted to know about her.  So much I wanted to say.  As a teen I distinctly remember wanting to say “I love you” in Portuguese but I couldn’t.  I literally didn’t know how.  I didn’t learn the translation until it was too late.  She passed away in 1997 and I will never speak to her or hear her words of wisdom again as the chapters of her story have already come to a close.

I wish my grandmother could have written her life story down for me.  I wish I could have known her better.  I wish her words could still be with me today - that I could still hear her voice or even just simply read one of her recipes. 

Sigh...

I can't change any of that.  But I can change what I'm doing now and in my future.

By writing this blog, regardless of who reads it or not, at least my story won’t be lost.  My words will not be forgotten.  Regardless of how many followers, page visits or comments my story will live on and make me stronger regardless of whether or not I consider myself a writer.

I will not wait for external validation.  I will not wait for someone to see me and tell me what I'm doing here is worthwhile.  I will continue doing what I'm doing because it’s alright to call myself a writer.