No Prompt Necessary

Today is September 30. In theory, I should be wrapping up the September Writing Project today. And yet.

I think I published something 24 of the last 30 days. All things considered, this is good. I started out strong and then other things got in the way.

I’ve been added to a major project team at work. I picked up a freelancing assignment. Bean started dance. And soccer. I became her room parent. Signed up to teach Junior Achievement. Signed up to be a Girl Scout leader. Started looking for a condo for my dad. Managed to stay married (even though I’ve been a real ass to T lately). Managed to be a pretty decent, involved and focused parent.

I wrote every single day without fail. But some days I couldn’t get around to the publishing part. I think that’s ok though.

I started this because my Happiness Project focus this month was to pursue a passion. I wanted to find out if I’m really, truly, actually passionate about this… or if I’m just seduced by the idea that writers work when they want from neighborhood coffee shops while wearing cozy-but-adorable sweaters and glasses.

I am really, truly, actually passionate about this. And that feels great to know.

I wrote before the sun rose and my kids got up for the day. I wrote late into the night. I wrote on lunch breaks, while I was cooking dinner, while the kids were resting. I wrote at home, at my favorite coffee shop and in my car. (Currently writing from the waiting room at Bean’s dance class.)

I think the best part—beyond feeling more sure that writing needs to remain part of my life—is that I feel like I can finally call myself a writer. Maybe 30 days isn’t really long enough to declare that, and my nature won’t allow me to proclaim it anywhere else because imposter syndrome is a real jerk. But maybe I’m a writer.

Reflecting on my childhood, my dad worked long hours in a chemical plant. He started as a maintenance mechanic and worked his way up to safety director over the course of a 40-year career. But as a kid, whenever anyone asked what my dad did… I told them he was an artist because that’s how I saw him. He had a studio in our basement and our house was full of his work. He had—HAS—a serious talent. Circumstances never let him pursue it like I think he wanted, but I saw him as an artist because it’s what he did and it’s what he loved.

So maybe it’s possible that I’m a writer.

When Bean comes out of dance class, I’ll see what she thinks.