I have always wanted to be a writer.
Wait. No, that’s not right, I’ve always wanted to be an artist! A singer. A dancer? My calling is actually as a therapist. An art therapist! A gallery owner. A sculptor. Did you know celebrants exist, what?!
I mean, obviously, I write. All the time. Words are my go-to when I need to work out my feelings and express myself. And yes, I have dozens of notebooks and voice messages absolutely filled with ideas and expressions and emotions and outpourings. My notes app doth overfloweth. My first teacher predicted I would be a journalist, merrily journalisting all over the place.
But, like, writing is so….lame. Just because I find it easy doesn’t mean it’s what I’m MEANT to do. Just because it’s always come naturally doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be looking for something much, much cooler.
Let us pause together to allow for a quick side-eye.
And breathe out.
I hope you’ve understood the irony quicker than I did, because honestly…. I have not been the speediest little sparrow. I mean….the sketchbooks I have gazed at forlornly, waiting for the day when I knew how to paint my heart into them. The canvasses stacked up, bold and bright and light, yet never really saying what I felt. The unavoidable veer towards words, no matter what I was drawing. It’s all there, in plain write.
With all that subconscious expression suddenly becoming clearer, these recent dives into actual, unadulterated wording have had my eyes gently rolling in kind exasperation, the quiet celebration of an inner patience I didn’t know had been sitting within me: finally, fucking finally, she writes! It’s like breathing. I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding it in.
The truth is, I didn’t want to be me. I didn’t see my natural skill as valuable, I wanted to fit someone else’s mold, some other art, anything but what I’d been given. Oh, but alsooooo, I didn’t want to work at it, the other stuff. I didn’t want to try to practice the other things and find out I was – shudder – bad at them (retch). So I just, didn’t….do…the things. At all. I wanted, and waited, and longed, and dreamed, and sighed, avoiding all opportunities to be disappointing or disappointed, and that was, omg, such a relief, except it was also soul-crushingly painful. A minor trade off.
And then a few words clicked a little key in a little lock, and I found myself here, unable to justify that pain any longer and, crucially, quite in love with the idea of actually being me. Eeeek! Because have you seen life? It can be so hard and upend itself at any moment and yet: squirrels? Bees. Rainbow, metallic spoons. Are you joking? Love? Friendship? Hamilton? The freaking Eras tour? Be so for real.
Imagine not wanting to be in this body, experiencing these things, with these people, and with the words to express it all? How utterly ridiculous would that be?
So no, I have actually not always wanted to be a writer and I have definitely not always wanted to be myself.
But I do now.
Fitter Inner 