There is nothing in the world I would rather do than write.
I love to learn about new things and new cultures, to study in-depth on all things dorkdom. I adore reading all different genres; especially discovering new or new-to-me authors. Time with friends - laughing, postulating, relaxing - feeds my soul. Coffee makes me giddy, and not just because of the caffeine; and sleep is a phenomenal luxury in which I love to luxuriate.
But writing...
Writing is my very breath, my fuel. It envelops me in a way nothing else can - even painting, which I also am quite fond of. The way simple words come together to evoke complex emotion...the twists and turns of phrase that can create something out of nothing are tiny miracles that dot the landscape of my heart.
Poetry was my dominant form of writing for much of my formative years, and remained such until perhaps a half-decade ago. However, it was primarily a way for me to process and deal with my more negative emotions and experiences, and so became prohibitively difficult to sustain in the face of self-acceptance and true happiness. The positive effect of this (aside from the obvious self-acceptance and true happiness) was that I discovered a talent and love for fiction writing.
There is very little like it, truly, and I have found in discussing the process with other writers that the frustratingly wonderful aspects of composing fiction are ubiquitous in the field. You have not lived until a character that *you* created grabs ahold of your story arc and gleefully runs the other direction with laughing abandon. It's like living with a host of imaginary friends in your head on a constant basis, all vying and jockeying for position and storyline participation and their very existence. They have secrets they refuse to reveal until they are ready, and entire sides of their personalities that will pop out unbidden at the worst times.
Let that sink in for a minute - these are people, characters that are created in your head, entirely made up of your own thoughts and imagination. And they hide things from you...trick you into believing things about them that are not true, and do things you never could have predicted. It's surreal in the most wonderful way. And I'm not just nuts here - this is an extremely common occurrence for many creative writers. Of course, that could just mean we're all nuts, but I'm kinda okay with that.
In any case, back to writing being my life. As some of you reading this may know, I have one published short story out there in the world, which was a result of winning a spot in an anthology a few years ago. Though it was not marketed all that well, and sales were therefore predictably dismal, it did give me the immeasurable benefit of working with editors and going through the process of edits, re-edits, re-re-edits, etc. It also taught me so much about what I do and how I do it, and how to hone that skill into something marketable and (more importantly) enjoyable for my potential readers.
This story was published under a pseudonym, due to personal reasons for me wanting to prepare for a writing career apart from any familial associations. Some time later, I decided instead to write under a different pseudonym, to feel closer to 'myself'; and even made business cards, a (now-defunct) website, an email address, and a twitter handle with this new name. But something just didn't feel right. I felt like the 'writer' part of me was this other personality, and the 'me' part of me was somehow just other. Enter my recent revelation.
I was on my personal twitter feed, which I created with my recently-changed married name, choosing whom to follow. Out of interest (and habit), I began clicking on all the different publishing houses, editing/quotes/writer's guild/writing help/etc. profiles, in order to get all the pertinent poop on the publishing and writing worlds. It was only after feeling immensely accomplished at finishing this task that I realized I just did this - and posted a writing-related tweet - under my personal account, instead of a 'writer' account.
First, knee-jerk horror. Then, slowly dawning realization - why do I feel the need to use a pseudonym? Why should I separate myself into different pieces, when it's who I am that fuels what I do? I'm not *just* a writer. I'm not *just* an activist, lesbian, mother, wife, friend, retail worker, horrible housekeeper, nature lover, spiritual soul... I'm all of these things. All at once. And the recent experience of legally claiming my married name lent new pride to the concept.
My name is my identity. It's what people call me - for better or worse - and what the world references as 'me'. So why should I choose something artificial to represent myself when it is my authenticity that inspires me? My original issues with wanting to protect those I love who share (now only part) of my name dissipated with the advent of my complete self-assurance in who I am. I do not ask them to change for me, but neither will I change for them. I am who I am, and my name is a piece of that puzzle.
All this verbosity to say...I am reclaiming my identity, both in the social media and the writing worlds. I will not hide pieces of myself to avoid conflict or discrimination, nor will I create some shield of pseudonym to hide behind. I am all of me, and I will be seen as all of me by all of you. Maybe this is prideful in the extreme, but I see it as only healthy pride. I know who I am, and anyone reading anything written by me from this point forward will know as well.
And now...I'm off to create. Love and light to all of you, and may you each find and celebrate the oneness of being completely yourself in every way, on every front. There is nothing more life-giving than this.
Not even writing.
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