Writing Life
Like it or not, a person is defined by their labels. Even the self-chosen labels, feminist, wife, lover, mother, sister, daughter, friend, student, co-worker, boss, employ--define us. We are never just a person. One of the big important labels is our job, paid or not. Though paid carries a lot more weight in this material world. We are, to a large extent, what we do.
Along with the death of a spouse comes the loss of a whole slew of labels. I find myself in virgin territory with unparalleled freedom and acute loss of identity. The writer label is still too new and self-imposed to feel important or all defining. For the past four years, writing has been my avocation, and my escape.
I still write everyday, working at my craft like a deaf woodcutter. Waiting for others to hear of my efforts, thus affirming their reality. This is the strange limbo of the sold, but still unpublished writer, clinging to the encouraging words of kindly editor who said nice things about my story. And best of all the magic phrase--I want to offer you a contract for this work.
When I began writing, it was with the goal of developing a second career. After working through a retirement planning exercise, it was obvious that I needed a job, not for income, though extra money is pleasant, but because work was such a huge factor to my sense of self.
At the time my husband received a terminal diagnosis, and through all of procedures, treatments, consultations, and decisions that followed, my role of caretaker and the impact of the inevitable loss of that vital, demanding job was never considered. Even with hindsight, I would make the same choices again.
I believe life is a journey as opposed to a destination. Right now, I’m crawling around after a train wreck, trying to find my luggage, which is a huge problem because I don’t know what it looks like or even if I have any, but if I can find some with my name on it, I'll gather it up, and then move ahead on foot.
Throughout this upheaval, I keep writing, trusting it will keep me moving in the right direction.
Along with the death of a spouse comes the loss of a whole slew of labels. I find myself in virgin territory with unparalleled freedom and acute loss of identity. The writer label is still too new and self-imposed to feel important or all defining. For the past four years, writing has been my avocation, and my escape.
I still write everyday, working at my craft like a deaf woodcutter. Waiting for others to hear of my efforts, thus affirming their reality. This is the strange limbo of the sold, but still unpublished writer, clinging to the encouraging words of kindly editor who said nice things about my story. And best of all the magic phrase--I want to offer you a contract for this work.
When I began writing, it was with the goal of developing a second career. After working through a retirement planning exercise, it was obvious that I needed a job, not for income, though extra money is pleasant, but because work was such a huge factor to my sense of self.
At the time my husband received a terminal diagnosis, and through all of procedures, treatments, consultations, and decisions that followed, my role of caretaker and the impact of the inevitable loss of that vital, demanding job was never considered. Even with hindsight, I would make the same choices again.
I believe life is a journey as opposed to a destination. Right now, I’m crawling around after a train wreck, trying to find my luggage, which is a huge problem because I don’t know what it looks like or even if I have any, but if I can find some with my name on it, I'll gather it up, and then move ahead on foot.
Throughout this upheaval, I keep writing, trusting it will keep me moving in the right direction.
posted by Evanne Lorraine at 11:15 AM
4 comments
