When you don’t write for a living or come to allow yourself to finally listen to the muses later in life, there is a nagging voice in the darker recesses of the mind that whisper, “Who do you think you are…?” Or, “Maybe, you really aren’t meant to only write…”.
To be fair, I suppose that even the most seasoned writer could hear these words echo through their neural pathways, but then perhaps the difference would be in the familiarity and knowledge that the struggle is worth it.
Although it is trendy these days to use words like “imposter syndrome” to describe this feeling of inadequacy, I also wonder if it is just a fear of the unknown or a kind of naivety about the writing world that keeps our dreams from falling into a worm hole where we could be transported to places never explored before.
When I was 8-years-old, I knew that I was a writer. When I was 12-years-old, I told my father I wanted to write when I grew up instead of being a doctor or a lawyer. Instead, I became a teacher and wrote on the side. Now, at 46-years-old, I find myself in a position to finally make my 8-year-old dream a reality, and, if I’m completely honest, it scares the sh*t out of me.
What if I still write like a child? What if my ideals of what it means to be a writer are so far fetched that I should just stick/go back to being a teacher? What if …
For most of my life, I have not allowed myself to ponder on the “what ifs” as it is a futile task in the unknowns. So, why should I start now?
The truth is that I have never wanted to write for fame and fortune. I have only ever wanted to write for connection and love.
Growing up as a transracial adoptee in multiple families, there was a disconnect that formed with the world in which I existed. It was as if what happened was not really to me, but rather some characterized version of me. Most of the time I felt alone and lost. Feeling loved was something that I didn’t understand until well into my adult years despite the best efforts of my dear family and friends around me.
However, somehow I knew that writing could merge my worlds — the one I breathed in and the one I lived in. I felt that the power of storytelling could cast a spell on readers to create a temporary sensation like a soft hug as they embraced the warmth the woven words spun in love. For this is what reading others’ words did for me.
This is what I wanted to give to others in sharing my stories in hopes that they could find connection and love in the same way that I was given a place to escape and feel safe.
So as the nagging voice softens, and as it quietens I can hear the rest of the words it is whispering: “Who do you think you are to not share your stories with others?” And, “Maybe you aren’t meant to only write one story, but many many more.”
Who are you — an imposter or one with naivety in opening 📖 the sunshine ☀️ into your heart ❤️ to tell the stories📚 you have waiting to be told?