I Am (Not) a Writer

Early last spring, I read a book that suggested writing down your deepest fears. Instead of arguing with them, the author said, you should just try to get comfortable with them so they lose some of their power over you. At that point, I realized one of my big fears was that I wasn't really a writer. So I made a sign out of cardstock and marker: "I am not a writer." As I wrote it, it struck me as silly, because in the very act of writing that sentence I was proving myself wrong. So I wrote another sign: "I am a writer." I put them up in my study (and you can see them in the above picture, which I posted a while ago).

Over time, I got used to them. I decided I liked the Magritte-ish ring of "I am not a writer." I realized that that sign is true--if you look at how I spend my life, most of my time is not spent writing. (Maybe "I am a sleeper" is the most accurate thing I could say about myself.) But I also realized, as I described over the summer, that I am a writer. As I let go of having one criterion for success (you must have published a novel or you are a failure), that sign seemed less threatening.

This past weekend, the signs were looking dull to me. I considered taking them down--perhaps they had served their purpose. But as I pondered them, I suddenly knew what they needed: rhinestones, glitter, and feathers. I took them down and used the art supplies I had recently bought to liven them up. Now they're back up on the closet door. Looking at them makes me happy--I think the feeling is a combination of glee at being able to use glitter and feathers as an adult, and the relief of realizing you can take your fears and transform them into something silly, frivolous, or sparkling.