Party crashing, soul crushing, and why I'm not a writer

Sometimes motivation is a middle-aged guy who shows up at your birthday party and crushes your soul a little.

Don (no, not his real name) wasn't technically invited to my birthday party. He wasn't unwelcome, per se, although there was definitely a moment when my only birthday wish was for him to … well … how to put this delicately … eff off.

I had met Don a couple of times before the evening of my party. He teaches creative writing and has published several books, so he seemed like someone who might have Thoughts/Things To Say. Late in the evening, I noticed Don sitting alone, so, being the -- ahem -- social butterfly that I am, I thought to myself, "I will bring him back into the fold. No one feels lonely here, not on my watch!" 

I sat down with him and chatted about the normal stuff -- family, travel, whatever. At one point, I said to him, "You know ... I enjoy writing as well." I thought, surely this topic would begin a lifelong dialogue between us about the aesthetics of self expression, the power of words.

"In fact," I probably smiled self-deprecatingly here, "I wrote poetry throughout college. I found it was a good way to express myself." I was ready to talk with him about Alice Walker's use of repetition; Elizabeth Bishop's sense of orientation; Rilke's lyricism.

Instead, he shrugged. He looked at the ceiling. He said, "Welllll, there are writers..." He frowned at me. He sighed. "And then there are hobbyists." 

Gulp.

There are many, many things I could have said to him in reply (for example, on the milder end, the ubiquitous and all-purpose, "Really?!?"). But instead, I smiled pleasantly and excused myself politely, because I am a Lady, or because it was my flippin' birthday and he was being a jerk. 

Or, maybe, because I knew he was a little bit right. 

Writing, I've always thought, is when my voice is at its bravest and best. But, for a long time, I wasn't writing. And one of the reasons I wasn't writing was because of a paralyzing fear that investing in something that is so essentially ME gives The World something to mess with. Something to diminish, mock, not take seriously … kind of like what Don had just done. And it was annoying, unnecessary, and a bit rude. But it didn't actually make me a poor writer. Maybe I had failed (miserably) to win over Don with my literary prowess, but -- gasp -- my talents had survived intact.

In time, I have decided, no, I'm not a “Writer” -- I’m not published, I don't go on book tours, nobody wants me to autograph anything. And if that makes me a "Hobbyist," cool. I’ll take it, and I’ll own it. I write because it makes me feel human. Because, without it, I wouldn't be me. I can't NOT write just because someone might (by that I mean, will) tell me my writing isn't awesome, or worse, they don't get it. And when that does happen, it doesn't make it true. 

So, Don-The-Writer, challenge accepted! I'd say "this one's for you," but it's not. It's for me, The Hobbyist. 

XO,
JM