Second-Rate Steps

On those few blessed mornings a week that my house is as still as an empty auditorium, I sit at the computer and ask the words to dance. Some days they tango. Most times they stand defiantly on skinny legs and glare at me. 

On days like today, I have the audacity to poke them until they move.

Life is almost pre-pandemic normal-busy-overwhelming, and already I'm worn out. Kids, job, household, wife - it's a frenzied four-step hustle. I'm not funny. I'm not insightful. My heels blister. And I'm doing a terrible job of writing and submitting regularly.

If I don't scribble out essays for publishing, am I still a writer? Are my words still real if nobody reads them? 

What does being a writer actually mean?

I don't earn money from my essays or blog. I don't own shelf space at a bookstore. If you Google my name, none of my articles come up (but kudos to my name-twin who is a molecular biologist published on Google Scholar, you overachiever). 

Because I write for myself first, I accept that I reach a small audience. But I long to stretch my legs in larger venues. 

Writing helps me process my experiences and parse out my thoughts. Part creative outlet and part love letter to words, it's an exercise I've been practicing for decades. In elementary school I wrote childish poems and slant-rhyme songs, trying on emotions like my mother's clothes. In junior high and high school, I filled notebooks with bad poetry about things I thought I understood. I kept a journal intermittently through my teen years and even saw a few poems published. 

My second semester of college, I joined the university newspaper and switched my wavering major to journalism. I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up - I still don't - but I was good at slapping words down on paper. It was the closest thing I had to ambition. 

My first professional job was as a reporter for a daily newspaper. Although I left print journalism a couple of years later and none too soon, every paid position since has leaned heavily on my ability spit out 26 letters in a million different ways. 

But I've never had writer in my title.

I started this blog in 2014 with asperations to write often and remind myself of my identity outside of motherhood, but life got in the way and "often" dwindled to "semi-regularly." It wasn't until 2020 - and the pandemic shutdown - that I had enough time and passion to begin submitting essays to online publications. Several have been accepted. 

Unlike my newspaper articles - which were written under my maiden name 20 years ago and are largely boarded up behind paywalled archive sites - now I have active links I can point to and say, "This is me." I am more than another face trying to stay afloat in the sea of parenthood, thanks to essays that buoy me. My words have greater weight because someone else believes in them. Finally, I could tell people I am a published writer. 

(But only if I whispered. The louder you say it, the more people will expect of you.)

Now, a mere seven months after my first published essay, my extra time and inspiration have dried up. I'm struggling to carve minutes out of my block of responsibilities; I regularly feel ground down to the quick. Continuing to craft new, creative, engaging pieces that organizations might publish takes precious energy and head-space that I don't often have. 

I fear my writer's glow is starting to fade. 

I'm banging out a blog post here and there as I promised myself. But what if I never write another piece I can reread and think, "that's damn good stuff"? Every sentence is a misstep that begs whether I have any good ideas left, anything alive enough to share. 

What if I've already peaked, so soon after truly starting?

At its most basic, a writer is one who writes. Not one who is published, or even good at writing, but one who is engaged in the act of writing. Austin Kleon, an author/artist I follow, says, "if you want to be the noun, first do the verb."

Successful writers swear that writing needs to be a daily habit. Not based on inspiration or motivation but a dedication to working on the craft every day, even if what you turn out is woefully uncompelling.

This is my lackluster recital. Two words forward, and one deleted.