It took me a long time to feel unencumbered when asked the question: “what do you do?” Because even when I could answer, confidently, “I’m a writer,” the inevitable follow-up question would arrive:
“Have you published anything?”
I don’t begrudge non-writers this question. It’s what they know. Because unless you’re a writer, you can’t possibly understand how quickly this innocent volley spikes the wind out of your sails (rendering you incapable of managing metaphors) when you have to answer “no” or, equally demoralizing, have to explain how everything else you do outside of having a book with your name on it in a bookstore still counts as being a writer all the while feeling like you’re losing credibility, and worse, the questioner’s faith in your autobiography, by the second.
“Yes, I have a book, but it’s in Canada doing some modeling right now, so … you can’t read it.”
It’s no wonder authors are beside themselves with joy and desperate to share it when opportunity finally strikes. A contest win. An agent offer. A book deal!
Aha! Now, we have a bone to throw at these people demanding proof we are what we say we are. And before too long, the question “have you published anything?” will no longer trigger us.
Little did we know, a more sinister query lurks in the shadows of our well-earned celebration.
The question we now fear having to face is one that comes from the very people who already know we’re writers, with real (no longer modeling in Canada) books with futures on bookstore shelves and bedtables the world over.
That question is:
“Are you still writing?”
Because the honest answer, for some of us, is no.
I’m not writing.
At least, I’m not writing the way I want to be.
I’m not writing the way I was …
before I became a writer.
The heart-aching truth is, since I claimed my “writer” badge four-ish years ago, when I wrapped on my fifth novel manuscript, sparked up the required social media accounts, built an author website and newsletter from the ground up, started a podcast, became a loyal literary citizen and active supporter of dozens of talented and thoughtful people, and started peddling my authorial wares through the gauntlet of “pick me, please!” —I’ve been painfully estranged from the kind of writing that made me want to claim that “writer” badge and do all that “writer” stuff in the first place.
I bring this villainous little irony up, as I have before… kind of a lot… over the past few years…
… not to garner sympathy, but to declare epiphany!
Where I am now on my author journey…
book deal landed, launch date secured, awaiting editorial feedback, binging marketing strategies, cranking up my social media presence, surveilling bookfluencer activity, finding my “ideal reader” and all of her friends and inviting myself to their parties, out straight busy planning every minute I’m not working my day job, sleeping, parenting, self-caring, or singing to my dog…
is exactly where I’m meant to be.
Here’s a perfect non-mixed metaphor for you:
“Writing” is falling madly in love with the person of your dreams.
“Being a writer” is planning and executing an elaborate wedding celebration to honor that love in front of the whole dang world.
Remember falling in love?
The spark of electricity. The tug of attraction. A glance. A longer glance. A flutter. A throb. A first date that leads to a second, a third, a fourth, a twelfth, a twentieth. The exhilaration of tiptoeing out of your bedroom realizing months have gone by and you’ve missed out on absolutely nothing because everything you want, need, and care about is snoring peacefully behind that door.
A question popped. A promise made.
And then …
It’s down to business.
A diamond sparkle. A squeal of support. A date saved. Announcements made. Venues scoured. Vendors courted. Invites sent and responses collected. Attendants chosen. Jobs delegated. Music, showers, cake and flowers. Vows composed and dresses fitted. Old thing, new thing, borrowed thing, blue thing. The seating chart and napkin folds the veil the train the car the plane the dance the toast the mess, and yes! I do. Do you? We do. We did? We did! Thank you so much for coming! We love our new blender. Here’s a postcard from Mexico.
As a lifelong worrier and worst-case scenario caster, I’ve often been troubled by the thought that becoming a “writer” has killed the first-love passion and behind-closed-doors romance I once had with my “writing.”
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from being married for over twenty years to the person of my dreams, it’s that there’s no limit to the number of times I can, and will, fall in love with that person.
I’m very busy now planning an elaborate party for my first book, to which you’re all invited!
But don’t mind me, if after the dancefloor dust settles, the honeymoon cruise docks, and the thank you notes land, I disappear behind a closed door with a beautiful stranger I’ve known my whole life and get back to doing what I do best.
Falling in love.
Obviously. 💕
The absolutely grueling process of getting this book published in paper form and OUT THERE, seems more like the "birthing a baby" metaphor. And when it is finally born and all the painful labor is done, then a writer goes back to the bedroom with her lover and begins the joy of creating all over again. I wish you so much success, Meg. You are SO tenacious. And, of course, I am always looking forward to WHENEVER you have new fiction for us.
So nice. Esp the end as our honeys are there for us thru thick (prolific writing) and thin (no writing).
True points beautifully stated.