The 'Coming Out' Rant:
I’m a writer. There, I’m out of the closet. I confess it, own it, wear it, swallow it, revel, swim and wallow in it. Being a WRITER (cue celestial chorus and orchestra, heavy on the French horns) explains so much about the way my head works, so much about the way the world works on my head. This is sort of like discovering you’re adopted and that your entire birth family shares your affinity for belly dancing.
“What’s the big deal?” It’s not exactly an exclusive club. No CV is required, no vote of approval. People of all stripes exercise their civil right to freedom of speech with great enthusiasm. And varying degrees of skill. Which leads me to my own particular hang up, and one shared by anyone who has a story clawing its way out of their head. What I write may not be interesting to anyone but myself. That, like belly dancing, just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. At least in public.
Now, let me pause and say this: I’ve always been a storyteller. Everyone who’s been with me at a cocktail party will roll their eyes and nod. I can turn an accidental viewing of a Bollywood film into an epic comedy of epiphany and unforeseen complications. Ask me about New York and you’ll hear, in detail, the prevalence of cab drivers utilizing a dual-pedal driving method and why they should make purse size car-sickness bags. Under many soft layers of acquired maturity and social intuitiveness persists a lumpy thing shaped suspiciously like a hambone. I have a love-hate relationship with it and I’ve confused my yearning to tell stories as an inappropriate desire to be the center of attention. I was wrong.
Abraham Maslow prioritized needs into a pyramid, at the base of which are essential physiological requirements, like breathing and sex (on an equal basis if you ask my husband, and I’m inclined to agree). Above that reside the need for safety and social contact, then esteem and finally at the very top, self-actualization. For most of my life I’ve restricted the need to express myself as a creative being in the rarified self-actualization region. A very nice little cookie after dutifully cleaning my plate, and the first thing to go when life forces me to economize.
But I can’t do that anymore. I need to tell stories, to write them into truth, to give them life in print. I wish to play the iconoclast and place writing at the essential bottom of my Maslow’s pyramid, right next to breathing and sex. (Would it be pushing it to put a daily glass of Pinot Noir down there, too?)
Members of my writing family come in all shapes and sizes, just like belly dancers. And they let other people SEE their efforts, slapping a smile on their face and shaking their groove thang. Such bravery is remarkable because we are thin-skinned about the things we love. Everyone is. And ART, above all, makes the artist transparent.
So, dear readers. I pronounce myself a writer and a poet of varying ability, depending on the time of day and stage in my menopausal process. I hope to inspire people to tell their stories, the way I’ve been inspired by the bravery of others. Let’s just let it all hang out, shall we?
“What’s the big deal?” It’s not exactly an exclusive club. No CV is required, no vote of approval. People of all stripes exercise their civil right to freedom of speech with great enthusiasm. And varying degrees of skill. Which leads me to my own particular hang up, and one shared by anyone who has a story clawing its way out of their head. What I write may not be interesting to anyone but myself. That, like belly dancing, just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. At least in public.
Now, let me pause and say this: I’ve always been a storyteller. Everyone who’s been with me at a cocktail party will roll their eyes and nod. I can turn an accidental viewing of a Bollywood film into an epic comedy of epiphany and unforeseen complications. Ask me about New York and you’ll hear, in detail, the prevalence of cab drivers utilizing a dual-pedal driving method and why they should make purse size car-sickness bags. Under many soft layers of acquired maturity and social intuitiveness persists a lumpy thing shaped suspiciously like a hambone. I have a love-hate relationship with it and I’ve confused my yearning to tell stories as an inappropriate desire to be the center of attention. I was wrong.
Abraham Maslow prioritized needs into a pyramid, at the base of which are essential physiological requirements, like breathing and sex (on an equal basis if you ask my husband, and I’m inclined to agree). Above that reside the need for safety and social contact, then esteem and finally at the very top, self-actualization. For most of my life I’ve restricted the need to express myself as a creative being in the rarified self-actualization region. A very nice little cookie after dutifully cleaning my plate, and the first thing to go when life forces me to economize.
But I can’t do that anymore. I need to tell stories, to write them into truth, to give them life in print. I wish to play the iconoclast and place writing at the essential bottom of my Maslow’s pyramid, right next to breathing and sex. (Would it be pushing it to put a daily glass of Pinot Noir down there, too?)
Members of my writing family come in all shapes and sizes, just like belly dancers. And they let other people SEE their efforts, slapping a smile on their face and shaking their groove thang. Such bravery is remarkable because we are thin-skinned about the things we love. Everyone is. And ART, above all, makes the artist transparent.
So, dear readers. I pronounce myself a writer and a poet of varying ability, depending on the time of day and stage in my menopausal process. I hope to inspire people to tell their stories, the way I’ve been inspired by the bravery of others. Let’s just let it all hang out, shall we?
