Being Rebecca

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I am a Writer…

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“How’s the Writing Going?”

If I say that I’m writing, will it make it true? If I tell you the words are finding me, will it convince them to flow? If I want it enough, will it happen? I’ve wanted to believe that by saying it, I was inviting creativity back into my life. But it was only a lie I wanted to be true.

I am a writer, searching for creativity.

“How’s the Writing Going?”

I’ve been writing the same four chapters for over a year. I’ve rewritten the same four chapters again and again, hoping to spark the story from which they were created. I listen… but the voices only speak to me in sporadic bursts – fading before I can capture them.

I stare at my screen, waiting for the words. I stare at the walls. I stare out the window. Hours go by. My house is clean. My laundry is folded. My screen remains blank. My head remains quiet.

I am a writer, without words.

“How’s the Writing Going?”

They become the words I dread most, instantly flooding me with shame. I cringe when my agent’s number appears on my phone, wishing I could tell her I have something… but I can’t. I watch my friends publish book after book. I praise their accomplishments – I am truly so proud of them. But I’m equally ashamed of my lack of contribution. Each time I attend a signing, I am humbled and grateful for every reader who waits in line to meet me. But then I want to apologize to each of them for only having the same four books without anything new released. The shame burrows deep, and I sink into its hole.

I am a writer, who is not writing.

“How’s the Writing Going?”

The question is now a blow to my gut, laden with guilt. Writing is my career. I chose to devote my life to it. I was so confident in my ability, I left everything else behind to pursue it. I once worked sixty to eighty hours a week, and now I can’t write a single page. I avoid my agent, my editor, my friends, my financial planner, not wanting to answer that ten-thousand-pound question. I am a fraud.

I am a writer, who cannot write.

“How’s the Writing Going?”

“It’s not!” I want to scream. “I’m not writing!”

Fear coils in my gut, cold and heavy. What if I can never write again? Have I written all that I’m meant to write? How will I pay my bills? Should I pursue another career? What’s wrong with me?

Wait. Say that again…

“What’s wrong with me?”

That’s when I know… Something is wrong. I can feel it in my vacant stare. Within the fog in my brain. I am lost. Disconnected. I am not myself.

With help from my doctor, I’ve spent the past year searching for me. The body is a delicate vessel, and if one thing is off-balance, it can affect everything. I have been off-balance, in need of fine tuning, like dialing in a radio station.

Static. Static. I can hear a voice. Lost it. Static. There! That’s it! Music!

I am a writer, who will write.

“How’s the writing going?”

It’s coming…

The voices speak louder each day. My confidence is re-emerging, comforting the fear with a hug, whispering “Everything’s going to be okay.” The shame and guilt have lessened, but insist on hovering. Soon, they too will be silenced because I don’t know how to give up. I am meant for this life, to share my words… to create.

I vow to never release a story just to ease the guilt. I will only share my words when they’re worthy of being read. I will live my truth and remain honest with who I am. And despite being lost in the haze of imbalance, I know exactly who that is.

I AM A WRITER.

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Copyright 2017 Rebecca Donovan
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