I was recently notified that I hit both the 50-posts mark and the 50-followers milestone. Fifty seems like a good place to do some reflecting, so here goes…
I am a writer.
I have always been a writer.
My writing is at once catharsis and egotism, pure creation and a cry for attention, pressure release and a seed of doubt.
When I was in high school, my father, who has probably only read a handful of non-religious books in his entire adult life, took something I’d written to work and read it aloud to his colleagues (bless them for indulging his proud-papa moment). I can’t even recall what he was so damn impressed by, but that feeling of being recognized for what my writing could do, for what it could inspire in a reader, I will never forget.
It comes back to me now with every kind comment, every like, every follow. Of course there’s a small voice that likes to minimize, They’re just trying to get a like or follow in return, but there’s another that says, My father was right. And while I may struggle with which voice to believe from one hour to the next, I can’t deny the joy of wrangling my jumble of thoughts and feelings into nouns, verbs, sentences, paragraphs…punctuated, presented, published.
I never used to call myself a writer. But now I do. And that, too, brings me joy. Settling into the identity that I always had but failed to comprehend until now; of all the things My Year taught me, that is what I value most.
To my real-life people who I felt safe (or brave) enough to trust with this collection of my writing, thank you for your encouragement. I can’t even begin to explain how heartening it is to have your support. And to my new connections, whose names and faces are often as mysterious as my own, thank you for occasionally stopping by to read. You are unwittingly helping me as I attempt to silence the minimizing voice and tune in fully to the kind voice, which I’ll admit sounds a lot like my father’s.