How Will I Know?

If he really loves me?
I say a prayer with every heart beat …..
I fall in love whenever we meet!
I’m asking you what you know about these things.

Break.

Sorry, I got so caught up in my Whitney Houston throwback title if I did NOT get that out I could never live with myself, for as a child, that song was one of my jams.

The subject at hand is one that came to me as a bit of a surprise. Apparently, I AM WRITER. WHO KNEW AND WHY DIDN’T YOU PEOPLE TELL ME? It’s also possible I didn’t hear you so don’t be too hard on yourselves, we all know how I am. I’ve always loved the “creative arts.” However most would say I self identify as a die-hard music person when I pick one of those arts. I was raised playing the piano, and went into vocal lessons, sang in a talented music program in high school. Competed in vocal competitions for chorale groups in two states and have never stopped “living the music” even though I did not pursue it as a career ultimately. Life doesn’t work that way sometimes. However, music is my soul, and I’ve held that to be my thing. I have also taken up photography the past few years and gotten serious in that hobby and its semantics and found that quite enjoyable too. Not trying to step all over the pros here, I’m just saying I love it as an art and I appreciate that I’m cultivating that in my life.

Now writing. I’ve always written things down. I’ve always gotten good marks on school papers, done well in English, excelled in “put the pen to the paper and do this” type thing. I have started a blog even in the past where I randomly babbled on about whatever fell out of my mouth and did it for a couple of years. Did that qualify as writing? Writers are these remarkably talented people who can suck you into these worlds, fiction or not, with their WORDS, and make you feel and visualize things just through type. They are smart, and persevering and I just never thought I made that sort of cut, to call myself a writer. I don’t aspire to spend 16 hours a day writing and rewriting my work, although I do get inspired to share the thoughts that pour out of my head while I’m in the shower washing my hair. There is this frantic scramble out of the bathroom, and it’s clumsy, and towels are flying, and I’m terrified I will suddenly be afflicted with dementia if I don’t write these thoughts RIGHT NOW, and really, the world doesn’t need to see the aftermath of my bathroom when this happens. My husband and cats have slowly come to expect this from me now and just get out of the way when the water shuts off and the doors fling open. Often writing fatigues me because of my illness, and sometimes my thoughts keep me up all night and I don’t write them down immediately like perhaps a dedicated writer should because I’m begging my body for sleep versus slaving away over a word document. The desire is there, but I fail at the dedication I feel that so many real writers have.

Someone (another writer) informed me the other day that things like this, this need, in whatever form it takes, means I’m a writer. This revelation has hit me like a load of bricks ever since. Even if publishing is not my goal, she said. Which it’s not. People keep saying “WRITE A BOOK, you’d be good at it!” Reality is, I don’t want to. At least not at this point in my life. I don’t know what that makes me, but there it is. I love my kind of “hit and run” blog style writing, and I feel connected to it and it suits me.

My writing at the moment documents my life, emotionally and raw. I’m sick, I have this frustrating family situation, I have issues I feel passionate about, and coming up here I may be losing my husband again for a year via military separation. Writing exercises those demons for me, and is fast becoming an inspirational thing I DO. And I can often do it from bed which is a huge bonus for the mobility impaired such as myself. The idea that people READ THIS THING and told me “hey writer, look at you!” is nothing short of mind-blowing.