I thought by now I’d know for sure what it was that I am supposed to be doing. I’ve been wandering for over 40 years trying to figure it out, and yet I am nowhere closer than when I started. I don’t have my shit together, not really.
What I have is a direction and I keep heading that way thinking I know where I should be going… and yet sometimes I sit here and have no fucking clue. I have these stories in my head, I have this knowing that words have this life force for me and if I don’t do something meaningful with them I am going get to the end of the road and be really pissed.
When I was a teen I told a friend what I wanted to be when I “grew up” and he nodded and told me he wasn’t going to “grow up”. 25 years later my friend told me we were both right. I wanted to be a Mother and a Writer. In that order. He spent the next 25 years collecting toys and enjoying knowing no bounds that limit adults. Good for him.
I strayed off and on my path, sorta. I became a Mother, and that truly has been my identity and I don’t disrespect that choice. But it has been a struggle as well when I look now as this “Mother” title starts to become less apparent as most of my children have now become adults. Now I find myself at this finish line of sorts trying to figure out what the hell I am supposed to do now… and I realize that I still have one thing left on my To-Do list that I set forth in my youth. The title… “Writer” is still there waiting to be acknowledged and worn proudly upon my nametag.
I’ve danced around it, tried on other hats… teacher, phone psychic, nanny, customer service, hostess, ect. They were fun hats to slide on and stare at my reflection with. But they didn’t feel like it was MINE. I always went back home and back to my writing. And there it stayed.. MY writing, nothing to share, nothing to let anyone else know that is what I secretly desired. Even though it wasn’t much of a secret to most.
My husband asked me to set a goal for my writing this year. I responded that I would LIKE to finish one complete draft of a book by the end of the year. Then I heard my self say “Holy crap the year is almost half-way through, what the hell did you just get yourself into?!”
I have to get my shit together. I have to stop procrastinating out of complete fear and distraction. I have a dream of my very own, one that I rarely tell myself is possible because I don’t want to admit that in order to make this dream come true I have to accept that it is okay to follow it. Dishes will wait, people will understand. The kids no longer need me to watch over them to make sure they don’t fall into pieces without me there. I’ll always be a “Mother” but now I want to also be a “Writer”. I might not ever become a best-seller, but that wasn’t the goal was it?