I’m a Writer…
I recently read, and thoroughly enjoyed, Year of Yes by Shonda Rhimes. It’s about saying YES to things in life, and parts of ourselves, that we ignore and that scare us. Read it. It’s brilliant. It’s funny. It’s me in an alternate universe if I was an insanely smart and hilarious black woman who grew up as a dorky introvert, graduated from Dartmouth and went onto write Grey’s Anatomy, Scandal, and How To Get Away With Murder, and in the meantime was the recipient of like a million awards. Like, the big awards. By the time I was done reading, I felt reignited, and ready to truly say YES to writing (and lots of other life things). The blog and beyond.
But there are still these parts of me that cringe at the thought of calling myself a writer, out loud or on paper. Not a cringe like it’s such a hideous thought, more like a cringe of…embarrassment? Insecurity? Fear of judgment? Cockiness? “Who the hell do you think you are that you call yourself a writer?” One of my best friends is a writer. Like a real writer. Like for TV. For the big networks. She lives in LA and hangs with the big girls, doing big girl badass script writing. She’s a writer writer. Her name is Cassie Pappas. Look her up. She’s beautiful, hilarious, and she’s crazy talented. I cringe at the idea of her reading me calling myself a writer. It makes me want to close my computer and go make my kids a PB&J with crusts cut off and drink a bottle of wine at 3pm while I look for bathroom wallpaper ideas on Pinterest and eat said sandwich crusts. I should stick to what I do. Mom stuff. House stuff. Errands. Try not to get fat and go insane and be an alcoholic.
Then again, that’s like saying, well, if I’m not going to have a hit TV show, or be on The New York Times Best Seller list, then what’s the point of writing the next sentence? I kick ass at those mom and house and life things. I have friends and sisters whose lives revolve around kicking ass at those things. Lives depend on us totally and completely kicking as at all of those things. I have friends who also juggle careers, in the corporate career juggling world, who kick ass at those things (with a nanny and without a nanny). But for me, when it comes to being kick ass at all of those aspects of mom, wife, life things, and NOT writing? Bring on the Prozac. Bring on the Prozac with the Pinot. Bring on the internal conflict of feeling discontent and dissatisfied. It’s not my life. It’s not the people in my life. I love my life and all the people in it! It’s just me. I feel like a noncommittal boyfriend, “it’s not you, it’s me.”
But I say fuck it. So what if I suck. So what if only you five people are the only five people who ever read anything I write. So what if I’m never on The New York Times Bestseller list. So. The fuck. What. YES.
Have you ever seen that person dancing at a club… ok, I know we don’t ‘club it’ per say any more, but let’s just say at a bar with music. Have you ever seen a person, that person, dancing, at a bar with music? Maybe they’re just a little drunk, and they’re flailing around. Literally throwin their hands in the air and waving them around like they just don’t care. They’re shakin what their mama gave ‘em. Their feeling the music. Sort of. Like in an offbeat, awkward way that makes you want to laugh at them and with them at the same time. They are feeling the flow. Dancing like no one’s watching, even though they know for sure people are watching. And they don’t give a FUCK. They are saying YES to not giving a fuck about what you think they look like. Even if they look like a baby giraffe having a mild seizure. They are having the time of their life. It makes them feel good. It makes them feel like they look good. As far as they’re concerned they’re the Jennifer Lopez and Magic Mike of the dance floor (or just that open space between the bar and the tables). They don’t care that they may be the only one dancing. They took a couple shots of liquid courage, pushed aside their useless insecurities, maybe even hiked up their skirt a little, or let their chest hair show. BECAUSE IT FEELS GOOD. Because they said YES to feeling good. Because it makes their insides tingle and makes that space between their nose and their chin move in the direction of their ears. Because, then a few more people get out there to shake their groove thang. And those people feel good. And all of a sudden, next thing everyone in the bar knows, they are all tingling inside and the whole place looks like a zoo for epileptic baby animals.
I’m a writer. I’m gonna write like a baby giraffe having an epileptic seizure like nobody’s watching. BECAUSE IT FEELS GOOD. I birthed children. I’m a mom. I didn’t say I was on The Moms Best Momming list. I don’t have to be. I birthed them, and most of the time, I thoroughly, with all of my being, enjoy being their mom. Therefore. Mom.
I birthed these words. Writer. Nuff said.
What’s your YES? What’s your baby giraffe having a seizure, don’t give a fuck what people think, thing? Let’s hike up our skirts, and get out there and shake what our mommas gave us! Wave it around friends. Wave your talent (self proclaimed and all) in the air like you just don’t care!