I AM...

I am a writer.

In the last year I have struggled with this statement. Mostly, it felt closer to an objective than a truth, because in point of fact I am really:
A lover
A mother
A full-time career woman
An artist
A pain in the ass
A little obsessive compulsive
A member of the community
A bad dancer
A worse singer
A daughter, sister, friend...You get the point.

All of us wear different hats—sometimes too many. We get used to juggling the different sides of ourselves, digging out the best mask to put on for the people we come into contact with throughout our busy day. And when someone asks what we do for a living, we rarely (if ever) give them the mouthful answer, but stick with a one-word reply that cannot possibly encompass the complex human beings that we really are, the multi-faceted, talented individuals who are deserving of recognition and voice. So, the point...

Hold up, I'm getting to it...

In the last few months, I've had to set aside some of my other “faces” to focus solely on my writing. I had a deadline and more than half of a book to write if I was going to meet that deadline. So I locked myself away in my home with my muse (which, ironically enough, then decided to head out for summer vacation, leaving me high and dry most of the time). This book was special to me and I wanted to tell it, but it was sooo hard. It ripped my heart out, stomped it all over the ground and then laughed in my face as I tried to put the damn thing on paper—not that this matters to the post for today, except to make the point that my frustrations only served to make this process tougher and longer.

The point—patience here people, I’ve been a hermit for two months and it has become difficult to focus—is that, well, I did a lot of writing. Really, you say? This may sound redundant to you all by now, given the nature of our association. But yes, really. I did A LOT OF WRITING. I woke up in the morning and...okay I can’t lie, I don’t write in the morning, can barely make it to the office without crashing the car because I’m still asleep...But I wrote through every lunch hour at work. I wrote as soon as I got home. I wrote well into every night. And on the weekends. All of them. I missed out on every barbecue, trip to the cottage and extended family dinner. My husband became a single father, and my son started to tell strangers that he missed his mommy.

This grim, focused existence accomplished what even holding my first book in my own hands hadn’t really done—not really—it made me finally fess up to being a writer. I couldn’t hide it anymore seeing as how everyone was asking why I wasn’t around. And it’s not that I hadn’t told the people around me what I do. But I’d always made it seem as if it were something that was kind of on the side. Well, my writing is no longer a sideline, fly-by-night undertaking. The torture of these last weeks has made me realize that only something that I completely loved to do would be worth what I’ve put myself (and, ouch, my family) through, and that means that it must be worth being put centre stage in my life.

Now, let’s not get hasty...I’m not quitting my day job or anything, and I’m going to try not to let my family think I’ve deserted them again any time soon (I love them so much).

But just so everyone knows...I am a writer.

What's your favourite response to that age-old question--"What do you do?" How do you describe yourself to others? How do you talk about your writing, and how do you juggle the many hats? I know that life can feel overwhelming sometimes, like we've taken the world upon our shoulders, but who do you lean on, who understands best when you forget their birthday because there's so much going on, who doesn't hold it against you when you had to cancel coffee night--again?
(SO SORRY)