My friend recently asked me how I decided to become a writer.
I’ve had different answers for that at different times. All of which are true, still.
The first thing I thought of was this post, which I wrote two years ago:
Why I Write
It amazes me how much I’ve changed. That post was messy in so many ways. But the basis of the post – those three reasons – hold true. So if you want the answer (or for this post to make sense), go read it. Don’t worry, its short. And if you want to scroll down and just read the three reasons, that’s all you need.
But there’s more to it than that. It’s deeper. Even messier – just, in a different way. More complicated.
If there’s one thing therapy is showing me, it’s how I’ve hidden myself… from myself. It’s kind of like waking up. I’m finding out more about myself moment to moment.
One of the things I’ve learned is how I belittle and cheapen myself to keep truth from feeling so real. I laughed and used humor and made sure nothing really reached my heart – or anyone else’s.
Causes me to come off as air-headed and clueless. Basically, superficial and naive.
It’s a misrepresentation of who I am. For one, I’m a lot darker than I let on. Yes, I’m also the opposite – I watch Scooby-Doo reruns and get giddy over donuts. 😉
I’m happy but I struggle with depression. No one exists in singularity.
My tendency to gloss things over is fake. Happiness and strangeness is not. So that part’s not been fake, I assure you. I just don’t show the darkness or ugliness.
And let’s get something straight. Darkness and depression are two different things. I suppose I’ve been hiding both.
Darkness is balanced by light, and when I stop trying to suppress a certain part of myself, I remember that.
It’s strange to be around so many people and to feel unknown. Stranger yet to feel unknown by myself.
But I’m working on it. I’m finding the more I find, the more joy creeps into my life. Being whole tends to do that.
Any who – back to the question.
How did I decide to be a writer?
I don’t really have a precise answer. I remember being upset and watching the roof of the car, the stars of the early morning sky, and curling up on my side, wishing I was somewhere else. I’d detach and *poof* I’d imagine the most ridiculously amazing things. I was always in my head, somewhere existing beyond reason and rules.
I painted reality with my own overlay of life and vibrancy, beauty and thrills.
I grew up this way. I got upset, felt uncomfortable, got bored, wanted more – I went somewhere else in my head. As a result, I don’t ever remember actually being bored.
I think it simply grew within me as I grew. I remember wanting to be a writer in kindergarten. I don’t really remember much before then at all, except for times I’d imagine myself away.
So it makes the most sense to me, for me to say, I decided to become a writer before I even knew I’d decided. I was really young. That’s all I know. There wasn’t a precise day where I said, “I want to be a writer” and the decision was made and my life was forever changed. No one person or situation inspired me. Nothing suddenly triggered it.
Instead, it just always was. I don’t think I ever really stopped and went, ‘huh, I want to be a writer’.
I just knew I did and I wrote.
When did you become aware of who you were and what you wanted to become?
Do you hide parts of who you are from yourself or others?