There are certain things people say that get to me. Maybe I’m being over-sensitive, but the words bother me just the same.
“She wants to be a writer.” a certain family member chatting with a fellow stranger while I’m standing there.
What? I don’t want to be….I am a writer.
“It’s just a poem, or a short story.”
It’s not just…the poem happens to be my heart and soul as the characters that live within the story.
While I was working, my husband would try to discourage me from spending too much time writing when things needed to be done around the house. I’d tell him that I needed to write. He would come back with a question: “Are you making money with your writing?” My answer, unfortunately, would always be- “No.”
Now, I’m home, no longer in the work force because of my progressive disability, and can spend more time writing. When I proudly announced to my husband last night that a few of my writings will be published later this year, he asked if I will be paid for them. Once again I said, no. Do I consider writing a career? Again, no. Then, a hobby? No, no…my writing is so much more than just a hobby.
He gave me this look of pure puzzlement. Then, what is writing to me?
I had no real answer for him other than my writings were my “passion projects.”
Somehow, that didn’t feel right to me.
What is writing to me?
As before, I’m faced with this identity crisis since I left the work force last year. Am I truly a writer? Or, just someone who enjoys writing?
I’m a woman with a progressive disability who can no longer hold a substantial job, who no longer could pursue a career. Yes, I am also a wife and a mother. But, why do I still feel like I’m missing out on something , and that writing is somehow a key?
No, I don’t think I’m being overly sensitive about these things. I’m just in search of something, and it’s frustrating me to no end.