Write Here, Write Now

Say it Rah-shay By Oct 07, 2011 No Comments

Most authors or writers always say that they KNEW they were going to be writers because they were always writing as children. When I was a kid Buffy and I would tell stories (one day she, me and our cousin were Princess Leia’s daughters and the person telling the story would always allow the listener to be a bit older and there for able to date Luke Skywalker) but I never thought of myself as a writer. I don’t care for the Brontes, Jane Austen can suck it and other great literary tombs went over my head as I chased after the latest shenanigans of twins Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield. Thinking writing wasn’t for me (the term emo is new; I was the 80’s equivalent of it though) I turned my focus to other things, keeping a journal or two but often forgetting to write in it, becoming annoyed at the idea of writing in it and just plain ole forgetting that I had it.

When I had The Bee I told myself that I was going to write about her everyday, a tribute, memorial to all things The Bee. The books quickly became lists of things I wanted to do, things I was going to do around the house and scribbled upon once The Bee was old enough to figure out how to work a crayon.

Then came that time when I was at an all time low. Marriage sucked, work was sucking, being a mom sucked. Life just…you get it. And one day a trip to the now defunct Borders led me to a beautiful journal that I got and that day I parked it in the food court, inhaled a Cinnabun and I wrote. I wrote about everything, the feelings that I stuffed deep inside about being a mother. The negative things I would allow myself to think about me. The worry about what I would do if I was not married. There were also some lighter moments, my hopes for The Bee, the books I wanted to share with her, the things I wanted her to know. As dramatic as it sounds I began to crave a pen, paper and words and to write. Writing became less of a chore and more of a dump. I would scribble on pages for hours and then emerge attempting to read over my flowery, messy words and laugh at the jumble of thoughts.

Writing was still feeling like a chore. I would berate myself for the days, weeks that would go by without me picking up a pen an then overcompensate and try to force myself to write until I resented my journal. Gah! Who wants to do anything like THAT? No wonder I hated writing. Blogging became a tool for me to write. I was able to share what I wanted when I wanted and when it became work I backed (back) off. I try to write in the moment, things that I really like and things  that I feel strongly about and with this I can say that writing has saved me sanity or more than one occasion.

There are still times that I look at others writers and think that I am not as good as they are but instead of being envious I applaud their usage of words. I’m inspired and aspire to write as well. Heck, I aspire just to write. Writing gives me a voice that I may not have embraced. Writing gives me a joy and writing is me.

Yes. I am Rachee and I am a writer.

This post was inspired by Dominique Browning’s Slow Love. Join in on the discussion with the BlogHer Book club.


I am mom, daughter, sister, yarn lover, word lover, crazy cat lady and library chick. Find me with book or with hook and a hot cuppa.

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