I write.
Duh. You say.
You are reading my blog. Of course, you know that I write.
But did you know that I write more than just the light, breezy and fluffy directions to craft projects or crochet patterns?
Did you know that I have been toiling over a fiction book series for the past 8 years and have various journals filled with poems and 115 short stories collecting dust in a folder on my desktop? Yes, you read correctly, 115 short stories.
And the list goes on.
Last year, I wrote 25 proposals for paying clients, of which 15 were funded. And 19 “lifestyle” articles were written with 5 published, under pen names. So, you can see , I’ve been at this writing thing for some time.
Writing is what “I do”. I guess. More than crochet. More than crafting. More than cooking. And dare I say, more than mothering and wifeing. And yes, I often feel terrible guilt over this fact because I love it so. Writing, to me, is like slurping in that blast of necessary air my lungs crave, after a particular long and grueling run.
But for a very long time, I’ve been scared of saying or labeling or self identifying myself as just a “writer”.
When asked “What do you Do?” I answer with, “I’m a fundraiser, a marketer, or a public relations pro, or a foundation specialist to non-profits.” And yes, to an extent that is “what I do” and rather well, since it keeps my family and I living in a house with electricity, running water and the occasional bag of groceries.
For 20-plus years the various serious and paid writing assignments I’ve had, which I am very, very, very grateful to have had, have been interspersed with the imaginative scribblings of fiction, on paper napkins, backs of receipts, torn off book pages, airplane tickets, and hotel stationary.
Why not say I write creatively, too? Why not own that space of mine? What’s the big deal?
Rather silly of me not to when I can claim my crochet and craft creative loving self so very publicly, here on this blog and on Instagram. However when faced with saying that the words of fiction snared in the web of my mind that I scrawl down, are mine, I balk.
Wuss.
Maybe it’s because I’ve always associated fiction writers as tormented, a bit crazy, exaggerated, sullen, struggling, too sensitive, the ones others run away from.
Not like me, I think. Not someone I’d want to be, I conclude. Not what others want as a friend, I admit.
If this space is a true Craft Confessional and not just a superficial and sanitized space of half-baked truths and happy delusions , then I must come clean and admit that on ocassion I, too, have these personality quirks. I do and that unnerves me a bit.
Yet, I recognize that it’s these itchy, jagged, prickly traits that give me that swoosh of air I need to spit out words of make believe and drama onto paper. And, yes, I think the words of fiction and poetry I write, are good.
Does this self-absorbed, highly ego-centric confession make you like me less? Scare you off me a bit? Want to click that “unfollow” button lickety-split? I hope not, as you don’t scare me, prickly edges, and all. And let’s be honest, everyone has those jagged ends that need some weaving in attention. Everyone.
So, as for me,
I write.
I’m a writer.
So be it.
And still . . .
x-o,
Mona
