I believe that you are what you will die if you don’t do.
This week I was invited to a retreat for writers. When I got the message I was shocked. Sure, I have been recognized on planes, and in stores thousands of miles from here, but this was the first time I actually heard myself called a writer.
I first started writing just after my divorce. I shut myself into my apartment for 8 months, I’d go to work, come home, go to work, come home, go to work, go get my nails done (I am not an animal), go to work, come home, and I would write, and write, and write. I wrote my life story, I was in my mid twenties then. I learned a few things during this time. I learned that I was funny as fuck, I learned that I had been through immense pain, I learned that I was strong, and fierce, and I learned that I was someone of worth, to me, my friends, my family, and the world.
I learned that I made a lot of huge mistakes.
I learned that when I made these mistakes I actually became a better person. Maybe not for a while, but I learned that if I waited long enough, they usually led me to something better, and in turn, I should be grateful for all my fuck ups.
I forgave myself and the world for all that I had endured, with gratitude.
I eventually ventured out to make a lot more mistakes that led me to a lot more beauty.
When I got to this island I knew that I had to write about it, there is some major funny shit on this island. There is funny shit everywhere, but this is a mecca. I didn’t start writing for any other reason other than I think I may have died if I didn’t. It was later that I realized that I had the ability to inspire people to live the way they wanted.
I always considered myself a woman who writes, a survivor, a thriver, and at best, a funny fuck up. But never a writer.
To say yes to going on this writer’s retreat meant that I had to admit that I am a writer. These women are writers. I am one of them. It is scary to put a stamp on myself, and more importantly to admit that it is a title that I want. Like when you finally admit that you’re a mother, like, wait a second? Why is this little creature calling me by my mother’s name?
But isn’t it scary to admit that you want something, to commit to a purpose.
So now I have to own up to the title of “Lizzy, the funny fuck up writer.”