ceelove

On a sadder note of life-reallocation, this seems also to be the year of letting go the identity of “being a writer.” I adopted it when dissecting a frog at thirteen convinced me that I would not be a veterinarian, and I Needed to Know right then what I could do instead. I made up stories, I would just start writing them down - crisis solved. Three atrocious teenage novels and loads of the requisite crappy poetry didn’t dissuade me. Then I wrote a play which my theater teachers had me direct. I got a standing ovation, praise from students and faculty, roses from my cast, and two of the three genuinely good days of my high school years. Hell yes, I wanted more!

My college playwriting had even more easy success, including winning a contest with a full production and cash award. That play got the attention of a Hollywood producer, who cold-called me at the callow age of 22, interested in adapting the play as a TV movie. I took that as a sign and abandoned the time invested in learning to write for the stage, thinking I would level up in screenwriting as easily as I had in theatrical writing.

Narrator’s voice: “She would not.”

So I wasted fifteen years, gave up my traction, skills, and industry connections, and never got so much as another nibble from Hollywood. Wrote three screenplays I’m happy with, but the only thing that ever came of them was a local theater adapting my lesbian fairytale musical to the stage. That easy success drew me back to stage writing, but that’s as far as it went. I learned a lot, got a lot of feedback and engagement from my community, got some nibbles here and there from small-scale theaters, but never another production.

And while I’ve genuinely loved the writing for its own sake - while I get a uniquely satisfying thrill from living in my brain while it’s crafting a story - it is a huge amount of work to plan, write, edit, and submit to theaters a full-length play. I can only do it so many times for the love of the craft and my dedicated little fan base. Might I reconsider? Sure, if something insistently demanded of me that I write it, or if the script that I put out there last year leads to a contest win or production. But without that, this year is the end of the line.

I know it matters to a few other people, who will be disappointed alongside me. And I know, simultaneously and contradictorily, that it doesn’t matter. Both in the sense that the world does not lack for good storytelling, and in that I never relied on my writing for an income or something crucial like that. I can step away with no repercussions other than a bruised ego.

But yeah, there’s a bruised ego in there. And some discomfort around letting go of the identity of a writer. Especially now.

“Writer” since thirteen.

“Massage therapist for life” since twenty-three.

“The center of my kid’s life” since thirty-three.

All shifting, no longer part of the bedrock of my identity. I mean, “crappy romantic partner” used to be in the mix too, so it’s not like I’m opposed to change. Just, there’s an awful lot going out the window in relatively short time.

Oh well. All in service to transitioning towards being a homesteading innkeeper across the nation, I guess.