I Am (Fill in Blank)
November 29th, 2006 by Marsha Moyer
Last week, I was involved in an online group chat in which someone I’ve met only in cyberspace mentioned that in our numerous discussions I seemed compelled to keep stating that I’m a writer, that I’ve published books, that I seemed to be crying out for recognition or attention to these facts. He hastened to add, lest I take offense, that he’d brought this up only to point out that these achievements were worthy in and of themselves, that I should feel justifiably proud of accomplishing something others often only talk or even dream of.
As I paused to collect my thoughts before replying, a startling reaction struck me. “Yes,” I wanted to say, “but for the past 5-1/2 years, my entire identity has been anchored around the fact that I’m a writer. Without that knowledge at my core, I don’t know who I am.”
Shaken and taken aback, I eased out of the group chat and settled in to do some soul-searching. What happens, I found myself wondering, when we put all our eggs in one basket and begin to define ourselves by some narrow set of confines: spouse, parent, caregiver, lover; tinker, tailor, soldier, spy? When our basic sense of self is threatened, the world begins to shrink, to seem like a foreign, unwelcoming place, until eventually the very thing that once defined us itself feels closed off. We come loose from our moorings and are set adrift. We become unrecognizable to ourselves.
The poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, “How could we forget those ancient myths that stand at the beginning of all races—the myths about dragons that at the last moment are transformed into princesses. Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are only princesses waiting for us to act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.”
What my online provocateur showed me, unwittingly, was that I need not to see myself as a one-note entity—“writer”—but to expand my vision, to take my gaze off the blinking cursor for a while and aim it at the far horizon. So I’ve set out to look outward, as well as inward. To find out who I am, beyond words on a screen or a name on a bookstore shelf. To reach toward the world instead of pulling away from it.
This is contrary to everything I’ve spent the past several years doing and, frankly, it scares the bejesus out of me. But there’s a little pinprick of brightness on the horizon. So I’m screwing up my courage. I’m moving toward it. I’m heading off to the coast this coming weekend with a group of female friends to walk on the (chilly) beach, drink a beer or two, indulge in girl talk. Not me the writer, not me the soul-searcher, just me, without expectations or labels. Who knows what I’ll find? It could be a dragon’s fiery eyeball, or the light from a princess’s castle. Or it could be that most alien and mystical thing to the fiction writer’s psyche: real life.
What an interesting topic. Really gets you thinking. I guess we all have one identity that feels the most comfortable, but you’re right, it isn’t the sole make-up of who we are. I’m a writer, but I’m also a daughter, a sister, a friend, a leader, a knitter, an administrator, a reader, a jokster. And as the writing thing evolves, I imagine there will be more to add to the list, different levels, new arenas. More dragons to turn into princesses. Although I hope they still breathe a little fire.
Wow, Marsha, a powerful post. I suppose I think of myself as a writer along with the other labels I’ve given myself: wife, mother, friend, sister, granddaughter, daughter, historian, reader, and writer. And I bet that you’ll find that you are lots of other things, too.
It really is weird how our culture wants us to label ourselves. Is it like that in other parts of the world? I read somewhere that this is a disease peculiar to Americans, but again, that’s another label–workaholic Americans.
Beach, beer, and gossip sound like good fun!
So interesting … my home page on my site lists just these types of identifiers.
But the writer title … that one feels subject to criticism and judgment.
I remember one time, before I started writing professionally, when a friend of mine said ‘maybe you just like the idea of being a writer’ and I nearly croaked. I felt horribly threatened.
having lost several of my labels, almost simultaneously, i hang on to that writer label for dear life! and i’m not published yet. maybe the chat buddy who called you on your writer label is just sensitive about NOT being published, and couldn’t resist knocking you a bit out of your perch (in the guise of being ‘helpful’, of course). I say, actually getting published is such a difficult road, being published IS something to rejoice in. Not sure what that person’s motivation was, but i wouldn’t give their words too much weight.
From some of the comments and emails I’ve gotten in response to this post, I feel I may not have made my point exactly as I intended. It’s not that my “writer” label feels threatened; it’s that when I’m NOT writing, I feel a little lost. I want to be able to call myself other things in addition to “writer,” not in place of it. (Melissa got it, spot on.) Also, just for the sake of clarification, the chat buddy who called me out is not a writer himself, so there’s no rivalry involved. However, his remarks caused me to realize how much I’ve come to identify myself as being a writer, sometimes at the expense of what I refer to in my post as “real life.” A few people may be able to write brilliant fiction without having lived much outside their own heads, but as I come into the home stretch on my 4th novel, the well is beginning to go dry. My goal is to replenish it, both for the sake of my psyche AND my work.
It’s definitely important to *be* more than the writer label–and I think we all are–but I think what’s interesting is why we writers do hold tight to our label. Is it because the writing experience can become so intensely personal? I know I feel depressed when I can’t write for whatever reason, even though I’m still busy in all my other roles; I feel the absence of that singular label strongly.
My other thought is that the label “writer” is anything but a simple one. It’s just as crazy, convoluted, draining, uplifting and difficult as the label “parent.” When we’re deep in creation mode for a story, we are pouring all of ourselves into it–our fears, hopes, dreams, our personal beauty, our ugliness, our love and hatred…the good, the bad and the ugly. So can’t we point to those sharply colorful threads when we define ourselves? Yes, I’m a writer. I’m emotive. Spiritual. I’m hopeful and fearful. I’m a philosopher, a psychologist, a poet and a researcher. A hell-raiser, a joy-spreader, and a question-raiser. I’m a woman and a man, and a child. I’m a ghost and a god (though I’m wise enough to stick with a small ‘g’).
It’s pretty cool to be all those things and have it summarized in one neat little word isn’t it? Writer. And no wonder when that label is stripped away, the world seems so empty.
Just my 2 cents.
Marscha, I just came back from a long weekend t the beach,with family and friends.
During this days, a repetitive reading became my guide and foremost pleasure: “The Dragon Princess”…
To me, the very deep learning was more about living whatever one is labeled as, at its fullest. About feeling without fear, but mostly, about having the necessary humility to open one´s eyes, senses and soul to the most basic truths in life, and to enjoy them at their fullest.
Thank you for your beautiful writing, I couldn´t be more empathical.And I excuse myself for any mistakes, english is not my mother tongue.