There are days when the inner critic is so strong that in order not to have to listen to it any longer I decide that I'm no longer going to be a writer. That's it! I shout to myself. No More! I hear it chuckle because the inner critic knows it has its claws dug in. The wounds will be so deep once I remove said claws, the scars will be felt almost with the same intensity... I whimper, does it ever go away?
I then proclaim, I'm a writer! I can't not write. Even if it's a handwritten letter, I will write. I will write for the JOY of writing. Whatever brings me joy, then that's what I will write about. Forget who might like it. Forget if it will be published. Forget all the things that spin around in my head that keep me from experiencing the pure joy of writing.
My kids - your grandkids - are always encouraging me. Hey, I'm their mother. But who knows, there could be kids out there that don't encourage their parents to pursue their dream. They push me to be a better writer.
I'm not sure why, but Rita feels I'm a better memoir writer than any other kind. My inner critic wants to shout - Who Cares?
I think about you and how I would love to read your words about your life, how you felt, what you did at different stages in your life, who was your first love, how many times your heart was broken, your dreams, what you were passionate about, you name it... I would then know a piece of you that I've never had the opportunity to experience. Even though my kids are experiencing me and know much more about me then I ever knew about you, I'm sure they would find out things they either forgot to ask or I didn't want to tell... then.
I picked up the pen and started writing memoir. I have less than 8 hours in and I'm at 19,000 plus words. Maybe I do have something to share. Maybe I am a writer.