A writer simply writes...

My godmother sent me a diary for my birthday when I was nine years old.  My sister never admitted breaking the lock but when I confronted her she quickly blamed my mother.  I ran downstairs and demanded to know if she knew what the words 'personal diary' meant. 

Had she not been laughing so hard that kind of impudence would have caused my mother's backhand reflex.  Feeling the burn of humiliation (I still blush dammit), I decided that I would never trust people with my real writing. 

After all, who willingly subjects themselves to the ridicule of one's essence?

But here I am again, posting my innermost thoughts for all the world to see with my real name and real city.  To my delight I have been received by the members of Gather.com with open arms and glowing comments.  

If I held my breath as often as I check for your feedback, though, I am sure I would be dead.  Come on.  Admit it.  You feel exactly the same way. 

We all want to believe that someone is a caring witness to our lives, or at least finds what we think or write interesting enough to respond to with a one-liner or even a simple 'Wow!'. 

And most of us don't pair up with writers because two writers in the same household would be pretty intense.  Who'd set the boundaries or walk the dogs?  And then there's the issue of all that competition, so a writer couple, like twins, must learn to quickly differentiate completely.

Okay, so it hasn't all been roses on Gather.  The piece I wrote on the Iraq War was not well-received by the first person who read it - and who meanly gave me a rating of '1' - but s/he didn't even have the whoozies to put a comment or name with their rating.  We could have had a lively discussion and perhaps one of us would have learned something.  The reader after that gave a good rating, but it still kept me about 5.5.

I guess the mean-guy thought I might rate her/his articles with the same brush, but that's okay. If everybody likes me, either I have no character or I am a complete pleaser. (Neither option is very appealing.)  So I'll keep writing from my heart, even though I should give it a rest once in a while. 

This morning my husband went on my Gather site while I was still asleep.  (What do you expect?  I was writing until 4 in the morning!)  Must have been curious or bored.  Yesterday I had strong-armed my (writer) daughter to read my article, "The old woman in the nursing home" and she got upset with me.  I always allowed my children to freely express themselves growing up, for which I have paid many, many times over.

Anyway, my husband was an unintentional witness to my reassurances that it was fiction, a creation based on my experience in life, not a death wish or a burden with which to imprison her.  But she kept insisting that it was about her and me and that she couldn't bear to think of me ever being in a nursing home, nevermind dying, and not to ask her to read anything like that ever again.  I felt like the worst mother in the world.  Her brother never reacts that way.  

No matter what I said to her, she insisted that it couldn't be anything but a living will and a not-so-subliminal message.  (I actually based everything on my dearest friend's mother's death from cancer, the longing I had for that kind of mother-daughter bond as a young woman, and my childless neighbor who has dementia and is sort of 'assigned' to me now that her husband is in a nursing home and she has trouble remembering who people are.)

I have this 'it can't be fiction' problem occasionally with my sister too.  She gets angry when I write about our childhood and email her the piece.  Tells me it is too emotional for her and too upsetting, but I see the Victory of our lives.  We survived and that is the beauty and inspiration of the stories, which seems lost on her. 

Of course, I do make her the villain on occasion, which she deserves.  After all, she beat me up almost daily until I grew tall enough at twelve to defend myself.  Then we became the best of friends and still are.:)

My other sister asked me to use a pseudonym when I publish the big memoir I've been writing for years.  (She didn't think it was funny when I agreed and asked if I could use her name, but my husband thought it was hilarious.) 

Years ago my mother convinced my youngest sister I needed medication (how I wish amphetamines weren't bad for you), and that sister doesn't believe any of it.  Our parents were too old and exhausted to be abusive by the time she came along.  Luckily my brother prefers to drink and sail in his free time rather than read, so I'm in the clear with him.  I think he might remember some gory details if you asked him on a Monday morning before he left for work.  Of course, he's a guy, so he would laugh while he told you, before he lit another cigarette with the one he was already smoking.

Anyway, the comment my husband posted was the most beautiful thing he has ever said or written to me (with the exception, of course, of "Well, let's just get married then".).  He even used the words 'gossamer' and  'luminous' in the same sentence.  Keep in mind, English is his second (of four) languages, and I admit not even I have ever used the word 'gossamer' in a sentence.  

You, Gather friends and colleagues, have already have given me so much inspiration through your writings and images and wonderful, positive comments that I am humbled and can only say 'thank you'.  However, I must admit, praise from my husband is precious.  He's not the grand b*llsh*tter I am.  Okay, so storyteller doesn't need any asterisks, but it doesn't have the same flavor a BSer, does it?:)

On that note, although I have always known that the definition of a writer is one who simply writes, it is exciting to be published and incredibly validating to be part of the Gather.com community.  I hope to continue to post, read your articles and receive your encouraging comments.