Funny, since I have left my career in healthcare to pursue my creative dreams I find it challenging to identify my occupation. I am discovering who I am, while, validating my crazy adventure to others. Not that others should matter. But I’d be bullshitting if I said they didn’t matter at all.
It is a rarity in current times to have a one income household. At least in the US. The expectation is that both parties bring income to the home. Add that to the war cry of women demanding to have it all. A war cry I myself chant. Currently, our home is very retro role oriented. Mr. Reinvention is out hustling and bringing home the bacon. I am playing Domestic Diva and taking care of the home and schooling of the babe. Surprisingly enough to me, I rather enjoy my newish role. However, we live in such a society where I am almost ashamed when people ask me what I do and I respond that I stay home caring for the house and pursuing creative endeavors. As if I need to justify my worth or our family’s decision to exist that way. At times I fret that Mr. Reinvention will burn out from the pressure of his role as sole provider. I could return to my old career at any time or assist him in his business but I don’t want to. I want to try a new path. This is the first time in my life where I have loose goals and plans that I am actively pursuing without any training or expertise. I am winging it. For the girl who has had her college and career goals planned out since age five this territory feels a bit sketchy.
I have been writing since becoming a brooding angsty teenager. I recall my first journal with the two cherubs on the cover. Apparently this painting is called Cherubs and is from an artist by the name of Raphael Sanzio. Though at the time I didn’t know or care about that information. Very 90’s style. I journaled often and wrote bad overly-emotional poetry about my life experiences at that time. Usually while listening to “The Cure” or “The Pixies” smoking a cigarette taking life way too seriously. I enjoyed writing but never pursued writing as anything beyond a hobby. I didn’t believe that writing was a career goal that could realistically pay bills or make a person financially stable. Therefore, it was never a priority. Nor were any of my creative wonderings. They had little future value to me because I did not perceive them to be a catalyst toward goal achievement. My goal at that time was not to wind up like my mom. Broke and stuck. As the demands of my education increased my writing for the sake of writing proportionately decreased and eventually was eliminated. I put it away for many years.
After my mom died and I left my job at the hospital I made a list. A list of dreams and ideas of what I wanted to do and who I wanted to become. My reinvention. Blogging and writing were two aspirations. I began journaling again and writing here and there when inspiration or grief struck. I became inspired by others and started to have ideas about different directions I could journey. Rather than tell myself I could not become a blogger or writer I began to entertain the idea.
Perhaps two of the biggest shifts were actually starting my blog and believing that I have something to offer others. The blog finally came to fruition after months of reading about starting a blog and creating a broad framework and finally taking a class on how to blog. I am here now because of one of our class assignments. Kick off our blogs. Thank you to Jessie of “Jessie on a Journey” for the motivation to walk through the fear and get going. Part of my fear in writing a blog was vulnerability. I am exposing my soul here. And while that is tremendously freeing that exposure is paradoxically terrifying because of my insecurities and potential criticism. Yet, here I am. Brandishing my own good, bad and ugly and connecting with others who have their own scars. It has been beautiful and fun and I am loving the discovery. And *bonus* I don’t suck at blogging…..I think. Little by little I am establishing my voice and people are listening.
This year I am further inspired to write a novel with Mr. Reinvention. I may pursue the work I had thought of originally. A collective of interviews and stories from all of my badass female friends who have successfully navigated major life obstacles. I may create that prompt journal idea I have formulated and jotted out. I have no expectations or limitations. I am doing it! Despite fear or trepidation or insecurity. I will continue to write.
So that leads to my post title and my question:
Am I a writer yet? What are the rules? Are there any rules?
Can I call myself a writer and feel it inside myself? Can I wholeheartedly feel that I am a creator? Can I authentically believe in my own reinvention? Can I accept that my new path may not look the way I expected and it definitely doesn’t look the way society directs it to look and that it absolutely ok? Can I celebrate my adventure?