What is My Problem?

Hello, Dear Reader,

I am supposed to do my check-in this evening. I am postponing it until tomorrow so that I may take this time to ask a very important question:

What the Hell is my PROBLEM?!?!

OK, before you all start posting madly with a veritable grocery list of possible answers (the downside of only having people who know you well read your blog…) let me limit your responses by way of a story.

Yesterday I met a woman. A very interesting, energetic and confident woman. A writer. I love talking to writers – shoot, creative people in general. Lately I have been noticing there are so many of us out there, it’s really refreshing and wonderful. Inspiring. But I digress…

Somehow it came up that I also am a writer. A mutual friend joined into to mention that I “even have a blog.” Of course, my first instinct is to blurt out that well, yeah, I have a blog, but no one reads it. Or I only have 7 followers and they are either friends or family or something equally idiotic. (True, but idiotic, nonetheless. And I am immensely thankful for all 7 of you, BTW.)

The good news is I didn’t say any of those things. The bad news is I apparently “shrunk” and “withdrew” when the second friend told the new writer woman that I, too, was a writer. It was so obvious and pronounced that WW (WriterWoman) commented that someone must have really come down on me about being a writer at some point or given me scathing feedback, or something equally traumatizing because my reaction was so negative. Obviously and physically negative. She said I literally shrank into my seat and withdrew when referred to as a writer. Especially one with a blog.

Gawd! When (and how) will I get past this nonsense? It bothers me. Do I need to schedule time in a mirrored room where I do nothing for an hour other than look at myself and say over and over “I am a writer, I am a writer, I am a writer”? Desensitization therapy for the writer with low writer esteem?

The thing is, I can not determine where this hideous (for really, it is hideous) reaction comes from. I know my father would have loved to have been a writer, my step-dad writes (extensive journaling and poetry) my mother appreciated creative folks (though being a Capricorn she definately leaned toward the Practical, with a capital P.) I don’t recall any real bias against artistic types in my family. The only other thing that comes to mind is the fact that my father and my auntie are both talented artists by nature who, for whatever reason, were unable to realize their artistic dreams…

Hmmm…there might be something there. Frustrated artists, people I love and admire dearly… Pressure to succeed? Fear of failure? Or worse, Fear of Success?? Just throwing ideas out there folks!

Help me out you armchair therapists! What is my problem?!?!?

It seems like something I need to address – for once and for all. I mean, I AM a writer. I freelanced for two years, wrote regularly for local weekly and daily newspapers, had articles published on-line and in national print magazines (three different ones!) The editors I worked with liked me and my writing as evidenced by the fact they kept giving me assignments. One newspaper even offered me a staff writing job (which I turned down.) I have had three poems published in two literary reviews (first 13 years ago and then again last year.)

What would have to happen for me to own being a writer? How do I define one who is, in my warped mind, a “real” writer? What are those boxes that need to be ticked off before I will own the title of writer? Because until I “own” this I fear I will be constantly battling myself to great detriment.

Got some serious thinking to do.

Write on,
j

I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a good writer.

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