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?

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.”

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.

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.

I’m still amazed at all the support and encouragement I get for living out my dream. I am indebted to all the strangers, new found friends, and of course, my husband, who keeps telling me that this is the right thing to do. That support, that encouragement, has been essential to me becoming comfortable with what I’m doing.

But when you stop and think about it, how many of us are ever encouraged to be creative? How many of us encourage others? When was the last time you heard someone say, “Yes! Pursue that music career!” or “Yes! You should be a painter!” I bet we’ve heard “You should really go to college and get that degree and become something respectable” more often.

Of course, there isn’t anything wrong with going to college or having a job in corporate America. Nothing wrong if that’s what you want to do. But it is wrong, I think, if you’re a creative sort, to be anything but.

My best friend Emily is one of the most talented and creative artists you could ever imagine. Just you know she’s artistic, she has that skinny, hip, nonchalant odd look about her. I always encouraged her to be an artist and while I encouraged her, she pursued it.

But several years ago we had a fallout and stopped speaking to each other for a couple of years. And when I did finally approach her again and asked what she was up to, her answer shocked me.

“I’m in college, getting my degree so I can be an accountant.”

“A WHAT?” I cried!

“An accountant.”

“What ever for?”

“Well, it seemed practical, like a good steady job. You know, I had that scholarship from school for it and I did all right in it during grade twelve. It just seemed logical.”

“No, it doesn’t.” I said to her. “You are so not an accountant. You hate math! You hate offices! You’re an artist! You took art classes at art school once. Why didn’t you keep going?”

“No one ever told me I should, except you. And you weren’t around anymore.”

We went on to have a whole conversation about how ridiculous, and almost funny, it was for her to be an accountant. I kept encouraging her to be an artist and sure enough, she stopped taking classes in accounting and found her way into a very well known art college. Today she is flourishing in the school, has sold a few paintings and is just over a year away from getting her degree. She’s also become highly involved in music and met her fiancé who is an artist as well. She is happy, content and living the life she was meant to lead. I don’t want to imagine what would have happened had she been doing tax returns now.

I think a lot of people don’t encourage art out of either fear or well meaning. We want to protect those we love from disappointment or hardship – and a lot of us still think that by pursuing a creative career that we’ll do nothing but suffer. Some people discourage art careers because they don’t think it’s practical or financially sound, or respectable. I think that sometimes money and power is overrated. Happiness on any level should be respectable. Having a job you love and work hard at, should be respectable.

Since I have become a writer, my outlook on art and creativity has changed. It’s all become so much more personal. I encourage others to waken up some creative part of them. I believe if I am to be a part of art, I must support in others in it.

Now, I don’t buy store bought gifts anymore; instead I buy art or a product that someone makes. When I buy something from an artist I am saying, “YES! Thank you for being creative. I believe in you.” I also tend to buy things from artists for my friends who want to be artists.

For example, my friend is turning 58 next week so I put together an artists kit which included an awe inspiring Super Hero bracelet, a signed & personalised copy of The Invitation, a copy of The Artists Way, some watercolours, pencil crayons and a blank canvas book. She’d been talking about wanting to do art again so I designed a kit to encourage her. The night she received her kit, she sketched some wonderful pictures in her new notebook and something in her woke up. She was a little braver after that and a little bit happier to boot.

We need to encourage those who are creative and artistic to be so – even if it’s ourselves. Then we need to support each other’s works – either with money or words – to show that it is valued. We need to start saying YES! to art again, whenever we can, so that art becomes more everyday and not so scary to those who wish to make a living in it.

Gandhi said that we must be the change we want to see in the world. And I, for one, would like to see a greater acceptance of art and those involved with it.

There are emails to catch up on, work to do, updates to make but for now, everything is going to remain quiet.

Last week I had major surgery and am still in the process of recovering from it. I’m trying to heal in a guilt free manner but it’s hard – there’s so much I want to do right now but physically and mentally I just can’t. Being an invalid has certainly been a learning experience.

I’ve learned that when you work from home, the line between work and home sometimes blur. When you’re at home, you’re also at your office. That can make it difficult at times to not think about work. There is no office you drive home from, or cubicle you walk into.

When I had the surgery, I had it done about a 3 hour drive away and I ended up having to stay with my friends for the first several days. This ended up being a very good thing because I was out of my home, out of my office, and out of my comfort zone. I couldn’t work, I didn’t have to return emails or type up thoughts. I didn’t think about how to work my surgery into articles. I did nothing, without worry, for those first few days.

Then I came home last Friday night and as soon as I walked in the door, I felt the need to catch up on my work and get back into my pattern of doing. Even though I was medicated beyond belief and completely sick, I thought because I was at home, I should be working. The computer was only 6 feet away and I felt guilty for not being at it.

If someone had told me I was a workaholic I would have laughed at them. I am known as the girl who plays far too much and hooky is my middle name. Yet with writing, with taking charge of my own career, it’s different. I want to write and create all the time. I have all these plans that have to be put into motion. There’s so much going on inside my head that all I want to do is figure out how to make it all real. Everything I see becomes something processed in my mind. I’m always writing in my head, reflecting on things, figuring out art. I love what I’m doing and don’t even consider it work half the time. And that might be a dangerous thing.

For the sake of my sanity, (and future guilt free surgeries or days off) I need to learn to create some kind of balance between work and home.

Maybe it would help if I didn’t live in 800 square feet.