You Don’t Have to be a Writer.
“You don’t have to be a writer to be a blogger, you just need to have something to say.”
I overheard this recently while going about my humdrum life, in my closed minded, protective, humdrum way.
A life I have gotten used to living recently.
A manageable life where inside remains quiet, letting the outside world thunder past.
I immediately paused for a split second, becoming aware of the tilting of my head in the direction of the conversation, desperately wanting to hear more and yet almost repulsed with myself for not walking away quickly enough.
Move away from the life that brings you back out of the quiet!!
Do not get involved!!
Do not connect, my brain screamed at me.
You were barely a blogger, let alone a writer.
And now you are neither.
‘You do not have to be a writer, you just need to have something to say.’
I rolled my eyes, a reflex, an escape mechanism, and promptly encouraged myself to carry on with my day.
I stalked away from the sound of the word ‘blog’ and off in the opposite direction completely.
I hurried around my desk, plonked myself down with a jolt, immersed myself back in to this new life I have created.
I sent a few snappy emails, answered a few telephone calls off a few angry people, visited my locker for a snack, fetched a coffee, drank the coffee, thought about the school run and ways in which I could possibly make it easier and less stressful for both myself and my son.
I thought about money.
I wrote a list.
I ticked things off the list.
I waited for the sun to set behind me, and as I usually do nowadays, left the office after dark.
‘You don’t have to be a writer…’
I briskly walked back to my car, across the badly lit car park, busying my mind with the evening ahead, and what I could do to fill it.
I drove home listening, as I always do now, to the TED talks on my bluetooth speaker, talks about Impact, Parenting, Leadership, Medicine, talks about all different walks of life and of the emotions attached, and how we deal with them.
Other people Shining, Teaching, Sharing, Loving, Living.
Noise. Any noise really.
But not music.
Never music anymore.
As music is one of the unwanted keys to everything, and everything is what I have been striving so hard to avoid.
‘…You just need to have something to say.’
I have arrived home over the last few weeks, key in the front door, living my humdrum life, like I now do, in my humdrum way.
Quiet, Faffy, Calm, Manageable.
I have eaten the dinner usually waiting for me, blankly and without feeling any emotion, read Addison his bedtime story and kissed him goodnight, and finally and thankfully sank in to bed, book at the ready to dive in to, film to mindlessly immerse myself in, sleep – the illusive elixir always there to greet me if I scamper and crawl hard enough towards it.
‘You don’t need to be a writer… you just need to have something to say..’
Frustration in abundance that all the while, this inconspicuous little bastard of a phrase has been creeping around the back of my brain and occasionally setting off an electric spark in my heart, nibbling away at my apathy, not so gently jostling me towards the place I do not want to have to face.
‘You don’t need to be a writer to be a blogger. You just need to have something to say.’
It smacks me across the face. Hard.
If Apathy is my Fire Exit, Writing is my revolving door.
Writing is my return to the charred remains, a way to go back and visit the scenes of the casualties, that make up the different jigsaw pieces of my life.
But I haven’t been ready, I have to be ready.
A place I can dip in and out of, I can visit, and when the going gets too tough, can skirt back out around the edges of for a while.
Dancing the avoidance dance, slipping back in to my humdrum life.
A life that has recently raised up like a whale out of water, and swallowed me whole.
I don’t want to write. As I am waiting for the lift.
I have nothing left to say. As I am pulling out a smoke.
I will live this humdrum, I will not think outside of this circle, will not dare to dream, feel the elation of the words going down on ‘paper.’
I will not suffer potential embarrassment of opening up. I will fall back in to obscurity. Disappear.
So aloof I do not even know if I can be genuine with myself anymore.
I have nothing to say. As I am pulling up to the petrol station.
I have said it all. As I am pulling Addison’s jumper over his head.
How have I contained myself in this Tupperware box, self preserving for so long, without noticing I have been gasping for air.
Or maybe I have known, and have subconsciously and studiously avoided the return, fearing for my own stability when I do.
What could I say? As I reach the speed limit.
Emergency Exits can definitely be useful in emergencies, but I think it is time to face up to the decisions I have been making, and push on that revolving door.
The one marked, Time to Reflect.
So here goes.
I think I may have found something to say.
I am not a writer. As I sit down to write.
I am a full time mother, a wife, a team manager, a therapist, a friend, a sister, a person with incredibly low self esteem, a person who loathes and loves technology in equal measures, a person who loves laughter, gets hurt easily, has made some utterly idiotic decisions recently and also some pretty good ones, I am a coffee drinker, a procrastinator, a scaredy cat, a regretter, a drama queen, a clinical depressive, a fighter, a giver upper, a clown, a bitch, a daughter, and I am also a blogger.
And I do have something to say, after all.
Even if I am only saying it to myself.