The Sublime Passage

For a long time, I’ve been feeling increasingly drawn to the idea of writing, and I’ve started to write more and more through journaling, attending a monthly writing group and of course this blog. Lately, I also experience a lot of spontaneous acts of writing, when paragraphs, phrases and sometimes entire pieces seem to write themselves in my mind. It can happen anytime. I could be in the shower or driving down the highway. It’s even happened when I’m sleeping.

Last year I began working on a non-fiction book, but I was quickly stymied by my feeling that I wasn’t “qualified” to write. Who would read it?. What made me think that what I had to say had any kind of value?

I’m still learning how to  live into my questions, so I’ve just been doing my best to hold this question of what I might write, without getting frustrated by the seeming lack of answers.

A few days ago I had dinner with a friend I hadn’t seen for a several months. As I caught him up on my life we got to discussing what I want to do with my life, given the fact that in just a few short months, I will leave my job of 11 years to pursue a consulting practice and who knows what else. I shared with him that what I REALLY wanted to do was be a writer but had no idea what on earth I could write about.

Last night it came up again in a conversation with my beloved friend Curly Moo.  (Incidentally, Curly Moo is the one who first introduced me to the fabulous Deb and her Living out Loud writing groups which have become an essential part of my very existence.) Once again I found myself saying that I really wanted to be a writer but didn’t feel I had anything to write about. I expressed my long-held fear that I didn’t have the kind of creativity necessary to write. Being the wise woman and supportive friend she is, CurlyMoo told me very firmly that this was not true. Again, I ended the conversation still holding on to this unanswered question.

Then, this morning as I caught up on my blog reading, I came across by Sean Platt at copyblogger.com which asked the question Are You Are A Writer? I found myself almost weeping with gratitude as I read it. The post begins:

I’m a writer. I spent over three decades unaware of this essential truth, but I’m ready to atone for my ignorance.

I could have written those words myself. In fact, if I changed just a few words in this astounding post, it wouldn’t be hard to convince anyone that I’d written the entire thing. Sean expressed so much of what I’ve been saying to myself for so long. I come back to an Anais Nin quote I shared not to long ago:

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.

It’s clear by the comments in response to his post, that Sean said what a lot of people are unable to say. I was forced to revisit my own words, “It occurs to me that my favorite writers and books are those which seem to say all the things I am unable to, for whatever reason. Those whose words unlock the hidden secrets of my own knowing and help me to to tap into my own wisdom. This is the power of other people’ words!”

Sean’s words speak for me and to me. He has said what haven’t been able to say up until this very moment, which is that:

I have language, so I can speak. I can speak, so I can tell a story. I can tell a story, so I can write.

Astonishing. To quote him one last time:

I’d always believed that I wasn’t very creative, or at least that what creativity I did have, didn’t run too deep. But I’m alive, and that means I know a good story when I hear one. A writer need not worry that his ideas will thin. Our minds only empty at the end of our final breath.

In reading this I have a sense of having uncovered something which in the deepest part of me I know to be true. Not only that, but a question has been answered for me. And while I cannot know for certain what I will write or when I will write it, I am certain of the fact that yes indeed I am a writer and I will be as long as I draw breath.