I guess there have been multiple times in my life where I’ve been in the closet for different reasons and then consequentially have had to go through the painful but enlightening journey of stepping out of said closet. My first experience of said closet, and the coming out thereof, maybe would have to be Sarah. But even before then, I think I had my own way of coming out of every closet that I put myself into. Even when, described as such, it isn’t really just a closet but a discovery, or an archaeological dig that must be eradicated of it’s emotional dust in the most precarious and sheltered way. That’s how all people learn things about themselves right? They secretly sweep at an enormous fossil with a hand sized brush to expose one jagged edge at a time, keeping it hidden until more is revealed..
I could go on, but why? This isn’t how people feel or think or anything. This is just me (INTPs unite!), coming out of my self-constructed closets. Writing in particular has been one of those closets for years.
There have been selected people, amounting to more than I’d like to admit over the past fifteen or so years, but still only selected people that have read my writing. And this has been with careful intent and sacrifice on my part, because being a writer was never an exposed faceted edge until now. I’ve released more writing to more people in that past year than I ever have in all the dark dank hours of closet writing. Recently – I’ve come to a crossroads and it has been this inevitable fork in my life that inspired me to write more than I have ever done and let myself cast it out for the internet’s eyes. Which – honestly, has been quite an easy endeavor.
Having a job that steadily and increasingly pays not only the minimum on my debt, but rather huge, staggering chunks of it at a time, is a gift that I cannot begin to be adequately thankful for. Money related stresses are, one of the heaviest weights to bear in this society of America and one, that when lifted, grants immense emotional freedom to the point of previous unknown and disorienting boredom. My mind began to wander freely into places where previously, I didn’t have any left over energy to go. A strange sensation, even just trying to describe it on paper, indeed. With everything changing in small but very noticeable ways, I turned to my words and dove into the blank tunnel I now had to explore.
Words flowed uninhibited and precisely about my imagined worlds, some rooted in reality, others not. There was so much of it at times where I wouldn’t move for hours, ignoring all the physical needs of an earthly human body for I, was elsewhere. Upon review, I was indeed proud of what I had written and feeling safe enough with my partner and best friend, I willingly and excitedly shared. Then, with their encouragement, I shared more and more of my words to more people. And Thus, my writing closet truly and finally opened.
Propping the door ajar has erupted within me, questions I didn’t think I would ever ask. Because, being a writer isn’t a thing, you know? With steady money, regular work, and cogs of a business; All of which is what I’ve ever known a job to be. Being a writer isn’t a job then, so what? Well, I need a job. So what is being a writer? Do I need a job… how do I make writing into my job?
That was the key question; how do I make writing into my job. Well, here it is. Write, write, and then write some more. Then wait, and write, and eat and write, and go to work and write. Every day, until you stumble upon ‘the end’, however long that takes. There are tons of steps after that (oh right – money is nice), but this is where it begins. This is where I begin as a writer.
I’m going to stumble and fall; I’ll have some successes and some immense failures. Maybe a book, maybe not. /shrug, why not try?