A Writer By Any Other Name…
Just the other day I was riding shotgun with my sister when a song came on the radio that I had never heard before. And I’m one of those people who actually listens to the words. I need to be engaged on more than one level. I listen to half of the song and pipe up that I could make a story out of it.
My sister just shook her head because she knows that my head is always in the next story. I can be waiting outside the men’s room at a Wal-mart and have a paranormal story surrounding the man who dropped his keys when he leaned down to take a drink from the fountain in the time it takes for him to retrieve them.
I’m a writer. It’s what I do.
And do and do and do and do….because it’s who I am.
I needed this realization because I’ve had a rough couple of weeks beginning with a four inch incision on the inside of my elbow that
put my entire arm out of commission for a while and ending with two, TWO tornadoes blowing down half of my town. (No worries…my house is undamaged and there were amazingly no deaths.) The bottom line is I have gotten almost no writing done. NONE.
I began to question myself.
What is a writer that doesn’t write? Is she really a writer at all?
As I sat in that car, my mind weaving this intricate small town story surrounding this country singer who came to find one very hunky man living in the house she grew up in I realized something. When I woke up that morning I laid in bed for a few minutes like I always do pondering how my heroine is going to bust the bad guy and get the hero. Then I got up, slapped and tripped my way to the kitchen for a cup of tea. There I stood, absently stirring in my honey as I contemplated if the bad guy capturing the heroine is the best way to bring him forward. Once I finished my tea and stumbled into the shower I stood under the steamy spray and wondered how the hero would react if the heroine suddenly was taken.
And this is the story of my life. Every day. I wake up thinking like a writer. I drink and eat like a writer. I live my life as a writer. Today, I didn’t write (well, except for this blog) but I know I’m a writer.
Because tomorrow morning I will wake up with a story in my head. I’ll stir it in my tea, wash my hair with it, drive it to the store, throw it in the dryer and tuck my babies in bed with it.