My first stop after landing in Port Townsend today was the flower-studded Farmer's Market. After three days on the road, everything looked and tasted amazing. I picked up fat little tomatoes in sunset colors, a watermelon radish, and some nasturtium-crowned salad. I chatted with a crafter repurposing cashmere sweaters. She wondered if I was from out of town.
"Yes, but I'm here all month!" I beamed. "I was awarded a writing residency for Centrum."
"Awesome! What do you write?"
"I teach writers," I said. "I write books and guides to support their creativity." Something was wrong with my little elevator speech. I felt myself fizzle, my excitement fading like spent fireworks.
"Actually, I'm here as a writer, not a teacher," I said. "I'm working on a book I've been wanting to write for a long time."
How deep runs the reluctance to own a writer's life! Why do we find ourselves deferring, downplaying, sidestepping being writers? Are we waiting for someone else to acknowledge us?
As if someone else's acknowledgement could change our mindset. Funny, but even with the honor of this residency, I fell into the old habit of hiding behind my day job.
What about calling? Can we, as writers, think of ourselves as having a calling?
It occurs to me that a "calling" might simply be the willingness to call ourselves according to our heart's desire. To act upon it. To take steps yearly, monthly, daily.
Let's honor who we are. You and me . . . we're writers! And in this precise moment, I can only be absolutely sure about me.
See you in a few weeks!
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