Posted in Quirks and Other Weirdness, stephanie2morrow

An Anarchist with Tweezers (or Why Writing is Hard)

Friday finds me staring out an enormous steel-grid window, trying to give voice to a character I created 13 months ago.  I can’t decide if she’s a she, or he’s a he, or he-she’s an “it”.  I can’t decide if she speaks in first person or if the stories should be narrator-driven. And if I don’t move forward with him soon, my series of wildly popular children’s books will not have time to generate millions of dollars in “merch” in time to fund my retirement in the Tiny Dream Home.  

A year and a half ago I made the leap to full-time writing. Well, okay, maybe not a leap so much as a giant scissor step. (Mother May I?)  And maybe not so much full-time as “when I find the time.”  But still…I naively convinced myself this would be an easy gig.  After all, I love it. I’ve known since 7th grade English class that I am, inherently, a word person (despite the fact I spelled inherintly, inherantly, inherrently incorrectly three times before resorting to Google).   

While I was mistaken about the simplicity of writing, I still spend my days filling blank pages with words.  Myriad words. Pretty words. Words that make you laugh. Words that make you cry.  Words that make you think. Words that make you feel. 

Or, like today’s offering, words that just make you read for four minutes because it’s Friday and you’re distracting yourself with Facebook and counting the minutes until the weekend instead of finishing up today’s work (or is that just me?).

I’ve been14600489_10154030839061801_1874055504_o disillusioned how difficult the process is.  I can edit for days on end.  I can mold somebody else’s content or idea into something very readable.  I know my gift.  “Coming up with original content” isn’t one of them, despite my attempts at originality in life. Maybe I’m deluding myself even there.  Really, I just use logic to make life choices, rather than follow mainstream thought. This has branded me a hippie, a progressive, a weirdo, an anarchist (do not read “antiChrist:”) or in my own mind, a salmon swimming upstream. A salmon with great hair. But I digress.

To be more honest, Friday finds me staring out an enormous steel-grid window, giggling at the goofy things people outside do while waiting at the traffic light.  Then again, I just plucked a whisker out of my chin and realized I’m on camera. Lovely.  Plus, I’m sipping an iced mint matcha, which cost me six bucks, and is basically just green tea and milk with a mint leaf garnish.  Whatever.  Writing is hard.

Posted in Starting Over

Someday…

I am a writer.

You cannot imagine how it feels to say those words.

My daughter rolled her eyes at me yesterday when I said I had “been working”.  Pretty sure her thought process was, “It’s not really ‘work’ if nobody is paying you, Mom”.  But I spent 18 years working for her and SHE never paid me, so I’d have to disagree.

I am a writer.

alex morgan1And I’ve been waiting my whole life to claim it.

Admittedly, there is this looming fear of claiming to be something no one else is validating. I mean, I can kick a dryer ball across the bathroom floor and call myself Alex Morgan, but that doesn’t really make me a forward on the U.S. Women’s Soccer Team, does it?

tiaraAnd I can wear my tiara and call myself a Pretty Pretty Princess, but unless somebody outside my realm of influence holds a coronation ceremony for me, my regality is seriously in question.

So if I type a few paragraphs and call myself a writer, won’t you people just call me a fraud?

I don’t care. I’ve been called worse.

I am a writer.

I don’t care if you read what I write. I don’t care if get published.  I don’t care if I go broke in the process.  Well, I care a little.  I do like to eat.  And buy sparkly things. But truly, not as much as I like to write. NEED to write. Somewhere amidst the busyness of being a responsible adult, that need got buried like a Cheerio in the couch cushions. But after several long years that lone little Cheerio was pulled out of the darkness and thrown onto the compost pile…and it was in that decaying pile it found enough sunlight to germinate.  (Yes, I realize Cheerios can’t sprout. It’s a metaphor. Stay with me.)

So now I find myself with this freedom to put myself out there…and this fear that when I do, you’ll judge me.  Or decide you don’t like me.  Or, as has happened on the most destructive level, decide I’m not worth the trouble.

space-mountain-disney-magic-kingdomWriting, in a weird way, is like riding Space Mountain. I’ve been waiting a long time to get on this ride. And now I’m strapped in.  Completely in the dark. I can’t see what’s beside me or above me or under me. I have no idea where I’m going and it makes my head hurt. Sometimes climbing and sometimes falling. I feel scared and exhilarated and liberated and very vulnerable. All I can see is what’s right in front of my face, but that’s enough for now.

2015-07-05-14-28-05-001I haven’t been this happy since I was a 17-year-old declaring “someday I’m going to be a writer.”

For most people, “what they do” is not “who they are”, but for me, I have planted a flag in the ground and staked a claim on my identity.

I am a writer.