Not a writer
I’m not a writer. Sure, when I have a thought or intense feeling on something, most of the time I blog about it.
But I am not a writer.
I have friends who have written and published books. My favorite blogger has written and published a book. I will never write or publish a book. Why? Because I am not a writer.
I’m just me. A mom. A wife. A sister. A friend. Do I write? Yes. Am I a writer? I don’t feel like one. I guess in the same sense that just because I paint a room in my house it doesn’t mean I’m a painter. I might cook an awesome meal for dinner but I am not a chef. I consider myself more of a dabbler than anything else.
What I’m REALLY good at? Analyzing myself. I told a friend this morning that I’m awesome at “shrinking” myself. I pretty much know why I feel the way I feel on just about anything, even if I can’t figure out HOW to feel differently about it if I think I should.
Now how confused are you?
So today I was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework with Hannah thinking about my blog and I suddenly had an urge to write. No, I’m not a writer, but at that moment, I wanted to write. Except I didn’t know what I was going to write about so when we finished Hannah’s homework I told the girls “Okay. Let’s go outside. Y’all can play. I’m going to sit and think.” Today was a nice, Fall day. 85 degrees. No humidity. 1 lonely cloud in an otherwise perfectly clear sky.
The girls were SUPPOSED to be playing and I was SUPPOSED to be listening to them and taking pictures, attempting to muster up some sort of inspiration so I could write. Instead, they bickered and fought over the power wheels and I had to mediate between them. I even tweeted something like my inspiration was being smothered by fighting kids.
But then it dawned on me.
That was the inspiration I needed. Today I’m not writing about a perfect Monday. I’m not writing about a perfect weekend. I’m not writing about my perfect kids or my perfect life. Today I’m writing about reality. I’m writing about the fact that my girls fought for 10 minutes straight about anything they could and all I wanted to do was sneak inside and let them handle it themselves while I hid in my room. I’m writing about how I stayed up til 1 am and my alarm went off at 6:30 and I yawned pretty much all day while attempting to handle 7 one year olds with my mother in law all day. Today I’m writing about how I almost lost my shit after walking into Hannah’s room this weekend and realizing she and her cousin destroyed it.
I am not a writer but if I was I’d write a novel about the ridiculous things that have happened to me in my life. When I tell people they sometimes think I made things up or exaggerated.
I am not a writer but if I was I’d also write about how after my girls fought, Hannah pulled the sweet, big sister card and set up a make shift, not so safe but fun, slide for them to share.
I’d write about how Hannah does cartwheels and round offs all the time no matter where she is, outside OR inside.
I’d write about how The Man’s brother and his girlfriend surprised the family with a surprise wedding on Saturday. We were all gathered there for a cookout and I swear you could hear my screams of excitement in China after I realized why they told everyone to come inside for a minute.
I’d write about how The Man’s sister and I went and got tattoos last weekend in honor of our family trips to Vegas that mean SO much to me. We’re going again in 4 weeks!
I’d write about how much I still adore Instagram and that you should follow me there @TheBecksB if you don’t already.
But I’m not a writer.
Or maybe, sometimes, I am.