Dear Writer

For the last year I have had the luxury of working with some amazing women writers. What I think I offer most, is space to be held as a writer. It’s such an honor and privilege to witness someone begin to trust themselves as a writer. Here’s a little something I couldn’t help but write.

Photo by Marcos Paulo Prado on Unsplash

You sign up to meet with her with your heart pounding and your palms sweaty. You tell your spouse or your sister that you’re “doing a writing thingy” unable to bring yourself to call it what it is, a big giant step in your writing journey. You start bargaining with yourself that you’ll just “see what she has to say” giving yourself an out before you begin. Like driving yourself to the party so that you can plan to leave early. You’re not really a writer.

You meet her and she tells you that you are a writer. You think to yourself she’s nice or rather, she’s just being nice to me. You listen to what she has to say and deeply and privately you feel something in your soul. You know you’re in the right place but you’re head tells you that you are not a writer and that you never will be.

She gives you a writing prompt and you agree to write something. Not because you’re a writer, but because you’re paying her and you might as well “follow through.” Because, in addition to being a writer, you’re a perfectionist and a people pleaser. You write something, it exhilarates you. You drive with your windows down, you turn up the music, there’s a pep in your step. Is the sun shining brighter you wonder?

She mentions sharing your piece. You immediately tell yourself that you will not. Not now. Not ever. You’re not even a writer, you’re just here because-. Well, because you’ve been called to write. That’s what she said anyway. For a split second you forgot that you are in a writing class and not in therapy. This is nothing like what you thought it would be.

You read your writing aloud. Your voice shakes severely. You feel deep vulnerability. You can’t believe you're doing this. She doesn’t flinch at your darkness, she only comments on the piece. It was good feedback. What was it she said exactly? You couldn’t listen. You’re blacked out now with a feeling of euphoria but also despair. What just happened?

You allow yourself to entertain the possibility that you are a writer. You feel safer now to say it and to embrace this part of yourself. She told you that you must. She said that you’re good enough. With her, in this bubble, not only do you share your deep life’s work but also this secret that you’ve forever shoved down-that you are in fact, a fucking writer.

There’s a shift. A transformation. It’s heavy and deep. You had no idea the emotional toll this would take. You wonder why you’re crying all the time. You wonder why you suddenly feel seen. Your writing a lot now and everything else, other than writing, seems kind of pointless. You have important life changing work to bring to the page. What will the page reveal to you next? She says it again, not only should you write but you must. You already know.

You show up and you write, but it’s not coming out clearly. It’s making no sense. It’s garbage, you think. I’m kidding myself to think I could do this, you say. You convince yourself that real writers don’t struggle. They’re English majors. They understand grammar. You abandon your work. You feel sad, life feels less meaningful but you can’t figure out why. You return to what you wrote, this is pretty good actually. Relief comes. Exhale. She tells you that this is the process and that there’s nothing wrong with you.

She reminds you that non writers don’t sign up for writing courses. They start podcasts, non profits and coaching businesses. They find other outlets for sharing their gifts. You wonder why your gift has to be so raw, sharing the most vulnerable pieces of your life. You wonder why you can’t just make baskets out of straw instead. You allow yourself to write now. But you vow that you will only share your writing once everyone you have ever known is dead. She nods and discusses vulnerability.

You write a clever piece. It’s not so heavy. It’s good, you share it. Someone comments, “love this!” You stare at the words wondering if they are liars or if it was good. You think it’s good. You’re proud. Four more people read it. You might as well have won a Nobel Peace Prize. You wake up in the middle of the night with an idea for what you already wrote, something that would have made it better. You hate it now. Your finger hovers over the delete button. You leave it up.

This goes on. Despair and Euphoria. You need breaks where you can just be normal. Less emotion. But you jump out of the shower naked and dripping wet trying to capture what you want to write. You ignore your kids when they talk to you because you are writing in your head while you’re cooking dinner. You don’t know how you got to work because that piece just came into focus while you were driving. Did I stop at the red light, you wonder? You share more of your work. You gain confidence and make friends with your vulnerability. She tells you if it matters, it might feel hard.

You don’t need her anymore. You wish she would read and approve every piece you write but she told you that you don’t need approval from her (or anyone really). You tell your friends and some family members that you’re writing. You’re prepared for their remarks. She told you this would happen. You are solid. You’ve done the work. You have healed. Writing is a necessity now, it’s a part of you.

You go weeks without writing and that’s okay, the white blank page is always ready when you are. When someone tells you they are a writer, you say So Am I and you talk about writing and you laugh and you connect. More people read your work. Someone commented “this resonated so much.” You’ve hit the jackpot. That’s all you ever wanted. For it to resonate. For someone else to be seen by you, for you to be seen by them. The exchange is nothing short of a miracle.

You are a writer. A fucking amazing writer.

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