I've never acknowledged that- I am a writer. I have dreamt of writing for over 15 years. It has been my secret dream. My stories, plots, and characters were all places I could escape when I had enough of the real world. I have rough plots for about 15 novels floating around in my head. Not one is completed; my characters are too elusive to pin down and just expose all at once. But I digress. I am not sure why I never told anyone or never really pursued publication. No that's a lie, I know exactly why I kept it a secret. It was my tiny fragile glass bubble of a dream. Sure I wanted to go to college and I guess law school, but none of those goals were dreams. Not once did I dream about getting sworn to the Bar, well I did but I was naked and it was more of 'worst nightmare' realm whilst I studied for the bar exam so that doesn't really count. I am terrified of my glass bubble dream being shattered. If no one knew about it no one could say something discouraging. If I never really pursued publication I could never be rejected. It was safe; tucked away only taken out when I was all alone and could cradle it protectively. Then I got fired (see earlier posts). My world crashed down around me and I lost all feeling of purpose. yea yea I am a mom, but you know what I mean. I need something else, something that's mine. Law, cruel sadistic bitch that she is, was mine. I was good at it. I was a lawyer. But as I said that all turned to dust and I realized that I still had this tiny glass bubble of a dream and now nothing else holding me back. Maybe just maybe I could somehow wrap this fragile bubble around me and protect myself from the fallout of my shattered profession. I wasn't a lawyer, I could be a writer with a law degree. I could write and no one could take it away from me. I might not make a dime and that doesn't matter. (Sidenote: I don't really mean that- I'd like to make a couple dimes). I realized that a dream is only a dream until we say it out loud. So I told my husband. Yea, my husband with whom I have shared everything, has been kept away from my glass dream. To my mortification, he has told other people all of whom have been humiliatingly supportive. (actually he bragged about it) I told my closest friends, who also nearly choked me with encouragement. Then the strangest thing seemed to happen, my bubble grew bigger, stronger, brighter. With every person I told I felt it grow a bit more. I still hadn't taken that step to move towards publishing, so I told Facebook. (Imagine dramatic music right here). I appealed to my 300 some friends to make connections. I got responses. I told more people and more and then groups of people all at once. As soon as someone asks about my writing my immediate reaction is to deny it, but I don't- I swallow the surge of bile and tell them about it. I still feel that apprehension every time I talk about it as though some one will laugh and say that's stupid. It hasn't happened yet and my little glass bubble feels a little less fragile these days.
Of course I haven't told my family. I mean I made comments vaguely alluding to it but never said "I am going to be a writer". They are loving kind people but they are bulls of practicality in a china shop of dreams. They can find out at the book signing.....
It felt good to say and better to read. I am a writer.
* if by "writer" I mean somehow who dabbles in the writing process with the eventual goal of being published.
