The Unutterable Phrase

The sheer audacity of the phrase terrifies me. I try it on for size. It fits - just like the black hounds-tooth dress with the velvet collar and cuffs I bought when I was seventeen. It was in the Myer store window. On my way to school each day I coveted that dress, yet somehow felt it was out of reach, out of my league. I tried the dress on three times before I plucked up the courage to buy it. The hemline was short, the cut striking. Could I really pull it off? Did it fit as well as I thought it did, or was I just fooling myself? Something inside proclaimed that with a pair of black seamed stocking and stilettos it would work…but what if it didn’t? What if, instead, there were whispers behind shielded faces - “She thinks she can get away with wearing that?!”?

Teacher. That’s a title I’m fine with. Someone gave me a piece of paper that says it’s so, so it must be so. I earned the right to claim it. It fits like the business suit I used to wear in interviews. Snug but stylish, confident but approachable. No-one can question my teacher status – although some past students may have tried. The confidence comes from the bestowal of the degree and the years of classroom experience. It is rightfully mine.

Wife? That took a bit of getting used to. It began as a pair of highly impractical yet beautifully made high-heels that I thought I was supposed to wear. I wobbled and fell. A lot. It wasn’t a good look. I ended up with a few blisters but eventually I made the role my own, like my favourite pair of cowboy boots. Easy to wear, my choice of attire and so practical – with a bit of sexy thrown in with leather and silver buckles.

Mother? Now that’s a title I wear with pride. Like my old ugg boots, worn and weathered it brings me comfort. I relish the warmth, the familiarity, the homeliness. It’s my safe place to fall and one of life’s greatest blessings.

But writer…I’m not so sure. It sounds so, so…pretentious. Do I have a rightful claim to the title? Can I really get away with saying it? True, words have always dominated my thoughts, my consciousness. To be honest, they have probably dominated everyone around me too. I’ve never had a shortage of them, never experienced a drought. But does that give me the right to use the word ‘writer’ in a self-description, or does it just suggest I am prone to dribble and drivel? Having a lot to say and having something worthwhile to say are often polar opposites.

Writing? Yes, I’ve done plenty, but always for a purpose, a reason. A narration, a eulogy, a farewell, a drama. I put my hand up. There were anniversaries, births, deaths, all set to the rhythm of my words. A poem or song was never far away. But those were private endeavours filled with sentimentality as much as skill.

Me, a writer? I harboured secret dreams as a child. I would live by the sea in a ramshackle yet quaint weatherboard house that would creak and groan in the winter storms. The ocean would be my inspiration and I would be content to live a life of solitude, surrounded only by the company of my endless supply of words…and possibly a cat. Maybe that’s part of the problem. I know I could never live a solitary life and I don’t particularly like cats. My dream of living by the sea was shattered, along with the illusion of being a writer.

I am a writer. There is such confidence in those words, such intent. It would invariably lead to other questions. What do you write? Have you been published? What are you working on now? “I don’t know,” “No,” and “I’m not sure,” just don’t seem to be sufficient. Right then and there I would be exposed as a fraud.

I like to write. I can live with that one. It doesn’t imply a great deal of skill or talent or finesse; it simply expresses the enjoyment of a hobby, a past-time. One may like to sing, but it doesn’t mean one can. There is no expectation, no judgement, no standard to be reached or exceeded. It’s just something I like to do, along with eating fairy floss and watching grass grow. But it doesn’t say enough.

It doesn’t convey the perpetual motion that comes when I allow the words to breathe. It doesn’t tell of the joy, the excitement and the single mindedness that comes when I write. No, it’s more than that. I don’t just like to write. Without words I would cease to be. Writing is an integral part of who I am.

Do I deny that I am Tasmanian by birth just to avoid the inevitable jokes? Sometimes, but most of the time I stand proudly. It’s an undeniable part of me. Do I argue that I’m not really that tall, or that I’m not really a mother? Of course not. It would be ludicrous to dispute the facts. (Although I did spend quite a few months slouching in high school to make my short boyfriend appear taller than he was…)

Why, then, do I deny that I am a writer? What stops me from proclaiming my soul to the world? Is it the fear of failure? Perhaps. Is it the fear of success? More likely. Just like the stares I got in my velvet cuffed dress from other big-haired girls, some are not comfortable with the success of others. It would mean I could be, would be criticised…possibly by those closest to me.

So what do I do? Do I continue to deny the power of the written and spoken word in my life, the amount of time I spend creating the perfect manuscript in my head whilst I’m busy doing more ‘meaningful’ things? Or do I surrender to the irrefutable knowledge that I am a writer. Not because of what I have had published; not because of the critical acclaim I have received for my work; not because of the income I derive from my passion (the sum total of which is zero). No, I am a writer because I breathe. It’s as simple as that.

It still feels like I’m wearing my big sister’s clothes, playing dress-ups and wobbling in heels too high for my immature legs. It feels like I’m trying to be grown up when I’m not, but over time I’m hoping I will grow into it. I’ve tried other outfits - what people want me to wear, expect me to wear, would like me to wear. But none of them were me. And so I have to trust that I am who I say I am. I need not fear reprisal or judgement or criticism – although all will undoubtedly come my way. Instead I hold firm to the knowledge of my authentic self, the person I was created to be.

I am overwhelmed by the privilege. I am humbled by the task ahead. But I will no longer deny it. I have come out of the closet.

I am a writer.