The things that make me different are the things that make me, me – Piglet.
I had to take my wife, Sam, to visit one of her clients who needed some artistic coaching.
When we arrived at the clients house. They lived in this beautiful sprawling bungalow which was nestled deep in the Ashdown Forest. For the record, this house has most likely a seven figure price tag-and the first digit being a three. The kind of place you’d expect on a Netflix property documentary. It was simply, stunning.
For the A.A. Milne aficionados among you, will know Ashdown Forest, is the setting for the celebrated, world famous children’s story, centred around Winnie the Pooh and friends.
I seem to accidentally fall into these places where famous writers have lived. A few weeks back. Some of you would have seen on my social media profiles, I was walking in the footsteps of William Shakespeare in the Tudor town of Stratford upon Avon. How much fun was that.
How is it, I seem to be following these great and legendary writers, and gain some motivational inspiration while immersed in their lingering energies.
Which caused a moment of thought.
I get asked all of the time what I do for a living. And although I am proud of being a medical professional, which is, in its self, a noble profession. I sometimes shy away from telling the person that I am writer.
Is writing a more ignoble profession compared to reaching into peoples body cavities? I don’t know the answer to this question and I think I need to come to terms with it.
But after dropping Sam off and taking the opportunity to walk Bella in this utterly beguiling forest. It wasn’t lost on me while I watched Bella tip-toe her way around the forest to think how similar she is to A.A. Milne’s character; Piglet.
Chuckling to myself over the Piglet/Bella similarity. My mind cast to understanding why I shy away from proudly stating ‘I am a writer.’ I mean, I have to think; how many people have written a book, let alone six. I think inwardly and outwardly, I should feel proud to call myself a writer. There’s really not many of us about. You could say we writers are somewhat–unique.
Most writers are solitary, introspective, lonesome even. There’s plenty more adjectives I can use but maybe not so appropriate. But whittling down to the point–most of us just can’t blow our own trumpet. Its not in us.
My issue is while struggling for validity as a writer–sales of the book is socially, the litmus test of any authors experience and yet it costs me more currently to publish than what I make.
As a business model, one would shut up shop, the bank foreclosing, and losing the shirt on my back kind of thing.
Sam is a hard business woman and an avid reader herself. She would have had that ‘sit-down chat’ with me long ago if she felt she couldn’t champion metaphorically a three-legged old nag at the starting gate of the Grandnational.
But she is my biggest fan. To her, without blindfolds, I am an Arabian thoroughbred, frothing at the mouth waiting for the starter pistol–forever pushing me forward with my writing.
Writing is a curious profession. Statically the lowest income generator but also in terms of outlay. For the cost of a pencil and a sheaf of paper; it’s how Harry Potter was written. On the sticky table top of a cafe, right.
So what begs the question; why am I writing if I trade the time-money-treadmill just to fund my whimsical musings.
While the income would be nice. Writing for me is more a personal journey. I feel a sense of peace in my turbulent mind. I guess even grounded. Being a writer isn’t about making money. Its much deeper than this. It’s about laying your trauma out on paper–exposing the demons which lurk in the deepest recesses of the mind. The way in which I heal from it, is through a story. There’s similarities in my life in all of my books, although augmented in their fictional world. Their net effect of childhood abuse gives my writing validity.
There are so many reflections in my fictional stories to how I feel in my head. So I think, I will stick with the writing and proudly tell people; I am a writer.