Feb. 20, 2002
Language. It ain’t easy.
I have lived in four different English speaking countries, which one would tend to think would make life easier. It doesn’t.
With writing now I am confused so much when using certain words. Is it spelt with a “s” or “z”? Should I put realise or realize. Is it traveler or traveller? Do I use the word rubberband or elastic? Felt or marker? Pop or soda? Cheque or check?
I know that if I’m writing for an American magazine, I should spell the American way, but the problem is, I am confused as to which is the American way. So many different words for the same thing run through my brain that I am confused as to which word belongs to which country.
Spellings that used to seem natural to me now look wrong and I am unsure to which country they belong. I’m afraid that with the wrong spelling or word usage, I will cut down on my chances of being published. People will either think I’m terribly thick or too foreign. It’s enough to drive a person mad. Or should I say crazy?
Feb. 17, 2002
Today is my birthday. I’m twenty-eight years old.
If someone had asked me if there was anything special about turning twenty-eight, I would have said no. Sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-five, thirty – yes, those are special. You know they are because they sell cards specifically for those numbers. When was the last time you saw a birthday card addressed “Happy Twenty eight! What a milestone!”
But I think twenty-eight is important.
I never thought about it until Pixie mentioned it in her page on the Another Girl at Play site, but twenty eight seems to be when a lot of people start to come into their own. You’ve either done the college thing or travelled a lot. You’ve probably settled down and begun to get over a lot of your own insecurities and figure out what you want. Chances are you’ve had several different jobs and even careers and you realise you’re two years away from Thirty. You start to think about things more and what you want out of life. Twenty-eight does that for you. Probably because you’re old enough to be daring and brave, but still young enough to get away with it.
Also, for a lot of us, twenty-eight brings you your tenth high school reunion. You start to reflect on what has happened in the last 10 years since you got your freedom. You start to think about yourself at eighteen and the ideals you had and the life you wanted. You ask yourself if you’ve become a disappointment or something to be proud of.
I think I am something to be proud of.
Looking back at my ten years, I realise that in a strange way I’ve come full circle. I feel closer to my eighteen year old self now than to who I was at twenty-five. At eighteen, I felt the world was there for me, waiting for me to jump into it. I felt like anything was possible and was excited at everything I didn’t know about. Fear wasn’t ever in my head – I was too excited about starting new adventures and learning about life to ever think I’d fail at something. At eighteen, I wasn’t concerned about plans and where I ought to be. I just simple was content to be in the moment. At twenty five, I was concerned more with getting to work on time at 8am, putting reports together, if my boss would yell at me, if my income was acceptable enough, if I was progressing in my career fast enough and if I was failing. I felt like I wasn’t where I needed to be and I didn’t know who I was. I suffered greatly.
Now, at twenty-eight, I am slowly learning to live again as I need to. I’m learning to just jump into life without worrying about failure. I’m willing to risk looking like a fool for a happy life. I’m experimenting with art, finding pleasure in saying yes, and accepting adventure without question. I’m feeling secure in myself again, because I’ve found myself again. I still have fear and am still insecure at times, but I do not suffer anymore or wish I were someone else.
So for me, twenty-eight is a big deal. When I go to my reunion this year I know I won’t be the richest, the most successful or the one with the smallest ass. But that’s ok. Because at twenty-eight, I’m totally living the way I want to be. And that, in itself, is an accomplishment.
Side Note:
After I wrote this, Summer Pierre (who became a musician at 28) sent me the following email:
Just to add to your thesis about the age of 28, here are some famous women who also changed their lives at 28:
- Anne Sexton wrote her first poem at age 28 after watching a TV program entitled ‘The Sonnet’
- Georgia O’Keeffe literally destroyed all of her previous work and declared ‘If I can’t live as I want, I might as well paint as I want.” She began creating through her won language of shape and form.
- Annie Dillard, after recovering from a near deathly bout of pneumonia, decided to live only as she wanted to. She moved to Tinker Creek in Virginia and began writing her first book, the Pulitzer Prize winning Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.”
Feb. 16, 2002
One thing I think is really important to share, is that since I made the decision last April to be a freelance writer, I no longer suffer.
The closest to suffering I’ve come was several weeks ago when I looked through the want ads. Now I know better than to go back.
I suffered all those years I was in a job I hated and a field I had no passion for. I suffered when I chose to be something I wasn’t for reasons I didn’t believe in. I suffered every one of those days, but not anymore.
Sometimes there are moments when I’m filled with self doubt and all my inspiration has run dry and I’m left wondering what to do. I still have fears and insecurities and sometimes I still double guess myself. Some days are harder than others, but there biggest difference between now and then is that now there is no suffering.
That, is important to know.
Feb. 14, 2002
Several weeks ago I opened up the daily paper and scooted my eyes over to the want ads. I was looking for a job.
I had come to feel like I was a burden by not making money when I really could be. I had a big surgery that was coming up and had to be paid for, there were things around the house that needed to be fixed or upgraded, and we had various financial needs to take care of. I felt like all I did was keep taking away without putting anything back. I figured I should find some kind of job to make me feel better.
Looking over the want ads in jobs I used to have I started to feel physically ill. I became nervous and unsure, frightened and angry. Every turn of the page my body stiffened until finally I had to run to the bathroom and throw up.
I thought about my reaction afterwards, why it was so strong. I realised it’s because I am a writer. From my head to my toes, no matter what, I am a writer. Yes, I was a fantastic executive. Yes, I do want to have some kind of creative job that I create in my future. Yes I do volunteer as a Docent at the local Arts Museum. But I am a writer first and foremost. There’s no two ways around it.
This realisation has helped me to define my intentions. I’ve been reading artists statements all over the place and every book always says you must declare what you’re intentions are – why you write.
This had been something I had been struggling with because I didn’t know what my intentions were. I only knew I wanted to write.
I’ve had so many different jobs, so many different hobbies and past times and the only consistent thing throughout them all, was writing.
As a child I read madly and wrote so much. I ate up books daily and loved nothing better than to be alone in my room writing a short story. Writing has always been in me.
When I made the decision last April to write it shouldn’t really have been such a revelation. But it was because I had developed hang-ups about writing and what writing and “being a writer” meant. Instead of just being OK with the fact that writing was natural and all I wanted to do, I thought I had to buy into the idea of what writing was. I read so many books on “how to be a writer” that I soon forgot how to be me as a writer. I tried to become something I already was. One day, I just stopped trying. I stopped fighting myself. I stopped listening to other people’s ideas on the subject of writing and began to just do what I needed to do.
I don’t have reasons or intentions for writing. I don’t write to prove anything. I don’t write because I think what I have to say is the best. I don’t write for fans and adoration. Having a best seller or award winning article isn’t on my to do list and I never honestly really thought about making money from it until people started to make an issue about it. All those things do not motivate me to write. I simply write because it is in me to do so. Without writing, I don’t know who I am.
Understanding and admitting all that has been a huge for me and in a way liberated me. It takes some of the pressure off that I feel outside sources have put on me. It’s not an excuse to slack or lay back in any way, but rather permission to move ahead as I need to. Once I understood why I write, I stopped having to live up to some image of a writer or reach some goals set by others. I stopped feeling like such a fake, and began to feel real.
And once I began to feel real, and that I was doing all this because its just who I am, I stopped looking in the paper. There is just no other occupation for me right now. I simply am a writer. There is no alternative.
Elsewhere