a writer's ego

“You know that conversation (fight) we had two days ago… write about that! You can’t only talk about the nice things.” – mom

“Oh, Okay, yeah? I mean, yeah, the personal stuff is important to talk about, it’s what people really want to read.” – Emma

Gulp. Officially given permission from your mom to write about your very personal, intimate arguments is a liberty I wasn’t necessarily ever expected to get. Maybe she’ll regret saying that one. Or, maybe I’m the one that will regret what I wrote, because mine will be the one that sticks, that one that you all read, my perspective, my view. That’s not particularly fair now, is it? Getting back at the people in your stories isn’t what memoir is all about… not all about. Some of it is about that. Some of it is about proving yourself right, when you’re a writer, typically, you’re slightly psycho-nuts.  Functioning, funny, liked. But psycho-nuts.  Just not the kind that takes medication for what goes on in their head.  The medication is the writing.  “Yeah, I self-medicate. I write.” Now, if only I would choose to self-medicate with writing every time, and not with ice cream nine times out of the ten.  I’d be hot and published.  Currently, I’m mediocre, and don’t have enough words written to publish anything serious.  Curse you, cookie dough ice cream, putting two of the tastiest things together on the planet into an edible frozen dairy treat is not fair to anyone. Especially us psycho-nuts writers.

Do you know how self-absorbed you must be to think of yourself as a writer? Really, really full of yourself, totally in love. You just gotta love yourself the most. Maybe not those fiction writers, I don’t know about them, maybe they are completely humble and only write stories up outside of themselves, creating a world, characters, lifestyles, conversations, out of nowhere. Out of their hollow legs, for all we know.  Or their pure, gentle, thoughtful, not-full-of-themselves hearts. Anyone else, though, journalist, bloggers, nonfiction, we all just love to write, and we all just love ourselves.  To think we have something important to say to the world, everyday, it just takes a level of thinking you are somethin’ special. One neat-o prize, like the kind you used to get in a cereal box, or cracker jacks.  The world is just a bunch of plain ole cracker jacks when you reach inside, but you are the figurine, the sticker, the puzzle, the fun little surprise. 

I tried to be humble, I really did. It worked, too, I’m telling you. It worked so well I hardly had any motivation to do anything. Especially write.  Who wants to read the lame, only sometimes funny, overly spiritual, crazy rambling thoughts of a twenty-three year old girl? Not anyone. Ever. Writing sometimes, when I felt a bout of pride coming on, it usually turned out, came together in a nice, clever piece.  I blogged enough. But now, to write. To really write, it’s going to take a lot of time, practice, effort, and… pride. Hello, ego! You’re going to have to show up and shine, so that I can sell myself, my words, and really believe they are worth something.

God forms us in the womb, knew us long before that, and watches us grow, tenderly, and as we grow he stirs in some humor, gives us freckles and marks, puts us through pain, shows us love, reveals himself in all our human form. Sometimes I think our bones ache, the spirit pushing to get out, to do more, to fly, fly, fly. And when I ache like I do and I will, now I ask God to do what he can through this body and mind, do what he can. Come through the tips of my fingers and toes, come through and go out. And let me rest, rest in you, when I’m restless and scared. I still feel the growing pains.