I Am a Writer

I am a writer.

Sometimes I type it out, but rarely do I say it.

When I am out and about and meet someone new, the conversation invariably turns to careers.

New Friend might state, “I’m a phlebotomist. What do you do, Valarie?”

And I say things before I even think. Knee jerk. I respond, “I went to school for phlebotomy.”

That’s true. I did. Never worked in the field, but I do have the certificate. That one and several others.

Or I say, “I stay home with my kids.”

Also true. I do. I’m a writer and work from home. So why don’t I say that?

But I feel compelled to keep going with the stay at home mom thing, and make it somehow socially okay that this is what I do. “My kids have a chronic illness, you know, lots of medical appointments. It works out better if I stay home.”

Why do I do that? I can’t explain it. It’s what falls out of my mouth when I open it.

Sometimes my husband or one of my kids will pipe up. “She writes books!” and New Friend will ask me about what I write and I snort or giggle or blush or wave my hand dismissively in front of my face.

Because… why? I don’t know.

Because I don’t think I’m a ‘real’ writer? Maybe that’s what I should say.

“I’m not really a writer, I just write books and short stories and articles that end up published by people who don’t think they are crap. Then I get paid for it.”

Or

“I’m not really a writer, I just do content writing for a digital marketing company and every two weeks they put money in my bank account.”

I realize it sounds stupid to say that out loud. But that is what my actions are telling people.

I’ve been thinking about this lately. Quite a lot. Trying to understand why I deflect attention away from my writing, or why I am so uncomfortable when people talk about it, or for the love of all that’s holy, why do I apologize?

Because I do that. A lot. I apologize. “Thank you for buying my book. I’m so sorry there is a typo on page 37.”

It’s word vomit. I can’t seem to stop it. It lurches out of my mouth before I’ve realized I said it.

I’m not certain there is an easy answer. There is so much behind it, I think. Conditioning, identity, and fear of pride. Perhaps even fear of success. I’m still working to unknot it all, like that really nice skein of yarn I once had that my little dog tangled up so much I lost the project I’d been working on.

I’ve read so many articles about women reaching the age of forty and having these great epiphanies that change their life course. There is definitely something pivotal about this age. My kids are all teenagers now, and in the not too distant future they’ll be off on their own.

I won’t be able to keep saying, “I stay home with my kids.”

I’ve got to practice saying what I am.

I am forty.

I am Valarie.

I am a writer.