I remember the first time I said I was a writer and actually meant it. I was going through O’Hare airport on my way back to New York. The Black woman checking my ticket looked at me and smiled.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh that’s cool. You look like a writer.”
I don’t know why I’m a writer flew out of my mouth like it did. So sure of itself. I was working in sub rights at the time. Drafting contracts. I was reading, sure. But I wasn’t actually writing. I just claimed who I want to become and I was convincing enough to this woman.
I smiled back and thanked her as she handed me my boarding pass. My back straightened a bit as I walked away.
It’s been almost twenty years since that interaction.
My entire life people have told me they can’t wait to read my books.
Books.
Plural.
I am not even sure what people saw or what I was doing to always hear that. Maybe it’s because I’ve always been of the belief to never speak unless I have something profound to add. Which I generally do by default now. And what folks called my granny-ness was really my wisdom. I have always felt like the elder in most groups. Maybe it’s because of my grandma. Maybe because I was the eldest daughter—until one day I found out I wasn’t. Which is why I also gravitate to older women so I’m in company of wiser people. It usually works out. I keep good company.
I wish they knew how much their declarations of seeing me hindered me.
My whole life I was also very averse to being seen. That doesn’t mean I didn’t participate in things, because I did. But I preferred to be a part than to intentionally stand out. Making an effort always felt crass to me. And yes, I was a primary school child that used words like crass growing up in Flatbush, Brooklyn. How could I not stand out?
I’m much less averse today, but still working through it. I took pride in being invisible because it meant I could absorb details. Funny how our supposed superpowers can turn around and bite us right in the ass. Now I battle invisibility. I do not want to coexist with it. I want to be seen, but it’s not driven by ego. It’s more of a ‘I’m here, too. It’s not just my work that you halfway pay attention to. There’s a whole beautiful being attached.’
Para social living hasn’t helped.
Now more eyes see me. But I don’t know who or what they are actually seeing. I feel rare. I’m the same online as I am in person. It catches some people off guard. And it makes me wonder if I’m living up to their perception or if their perception now leaves me without.
I’ve struggled with reading since becoming a parent. Not because I don’t read. I do. Aloud. Almost nightly for at least the last decade. I paused, then stopped when I started getting constantly sick.
I’ve also struggled with deep exhaustion. Exhaustion that took the place of almost anything that pleased me because I had two kids in need of my full attention. So their reading time became my reading time. I moved from glossy papered children’s books to novels pretty quickly. I’d read and laugh (or cry—I am a crier) with them every night. Sometimes reading 20 pages. Sometimes not wanting to stop.
Now in my 40’s, I’ve spent the last dozen or so years building an alternate life. Partly because of my unresolved desire to be unseen meeting in the parking lot with this newer me: the mom, doing everything all the time with no support system in reach, never having a moment of rest and wanting to not disappear behind cloth diapers and piles of laundry and cooking.
That alternative life first showed up on tumblr. Then turned into Raising Mothers. Then Literary Liberation. People now see me as a business, and not a writer. Which is wild and weird, but also a bit helpful for taking the pressure off.
I’ve never not been a creative person, so when did this happen?
I’ve stopped/started so many books in my Books app. 10% here, 21% there.
Last week I finished my first adult book in ages. I’m halfway through my second one. Suddenly my desire to write again has burst through my chest. It’s ushering its way in just like the Spring.
I’ve finally hit my sweet spot. And what’s funny about this very literal moment is my daughter demanding I give her letters to write letter by letter as I sit beside her typing this. So far she’s written her full name, New York, Brooklyn, Canarsie and Flatbush.
I’m at a point where time is making room for me. I’m making more room for myself.
“I’m a writer.”
“You look like a writer.”
“I do?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you for telling me that.”