The Day I Decided to Write

It’s what I am, so why isn’t it what I do?

I consider myself to be many things. I am a person, a woman, a friend, a sister, a colleague, a shower singer, a geek, a slob, a lover of art, a reader, a cat fancier, a poet at heart, a believer, a skeptic, an optimist, a depressive, a disorganized mess (at times), an intuitive thinker, a closet romantic. Really, the list can go on and on.

There are two things, however, that I have always considered myself to be, always, a teacher and a writer.

I am a teacher. It is what I am. It’s what I do and what I’ve done every day of my working life. I could never stop teaching even if I tried, and really, I can’t imagine ever trying. When people ask what I do, I hold my head up proudly and I say without any shadow of doubt, and with more than a little pride, I teach.

Sometimes when people ask me what I do, you know, when I’m not teaching, I say, “I am a writer.” But something strange always happens when I do that. My head that was held so high bends down a bit, and my voice that was so confident in my career gives way to a bit of a stutter, and suddenly the pride gets pushed out by guilt and self-doubt. I’m not lying, I tell myself. I am a writer. I write all the time, every minute of every day. The problem is the words never seem to make it from my head to my fingers.

Please keep on reading!