And I will write 500 more…

I’ve been struggling with my identity, on so many levels in recent years. My kids have all moved out of the house, I’ve changed my address, lost nearly half of my body weight and completely changed who I see in the mirror, in fact, where did the white hair and wrinkles come from… and there are days when I wonder am I still a writer?

Obviously, I’ll always be a mom, but for so many years, my life was entirely wrapped around my boys, and being a mom. Many of you will understand the sense of loss and even floundering when your kids all move out, and you realize they’re probably not coming back. And that’s as it should be, they’re adults. Sitting at the dinner table, Hunky Hubby and me, having a peaceful dinner, no interruptions, no loud conversation, arguing with brothers, fighting over who gets the last serving of whatever is on the table…or fighting because someone took the last serving while no one was looking. No food being thrown…not that my little angels every would have done that. I’ll never be a mom in the same way.

I prepared for this, or I tried to prepare anyway. I’d written for magazines and newspapers since my oldest was 9 months old. While I didn’t call myself a writer ̶ writers are people like Nora Roberts, Phillipa Gregory, Megan Hart ̶ I wrote, was published, and paid. So, when people asked what I did, I said I was a stay-at-home mom. If they pushed, I might say “I write”, without making it part of my identity. When my boys reached their teen years, I realized how hard it was going to be to let go of that part of being a full-time mom. I needed to prepare.

I’d always wanted to write fiction. I wrote short stories. I wrote children’s story. I even wrote a complete novel by hand. So, I wrote fiction, for myself. But I wasn’t a writer.

I joined our local RWA Chapter, and my motivation grew. I wrote at every opportunity, and one by one, my boys moved out. Before they had all moved out, my first novella was published in an anthology. It was hard, but when people asked what I did, I stopped saying stay-at-home mom, or housewife, and started saying “I’m a writer”. And I wrote and published several more books as a hybrid author.

Then I got a second chance, not as Mom, but as Grandma. Grandma, the best title ever. For two years, I was totally wrapped up in Milo as I got to spend time with him full time while my son and daughter-in-law worked. A gift I never expected.

But life is constantly changing, and Milo went off to preschool where his mother is a teacher, Hunky Hubby retired, and we moved from the outskirts of Los Angeles, to rural Arizona. The rural part is a dream I’ve always had. I grew up in rural Ohio, and loved living in the small peaceful farm town where my father had also grown up.

I worried that Hunky Hubby would have a hard time with retirement. He’d worked hard his whole life. He immediately started talking about getting a job. But then something happened. He shifted his focus. We bought the house next door, and he made it his new job. He gets up every morning at 5am, and goes to work remodeling the house. He found a purpose, and he’s thriving.

I find myself getting up, glancing at the computer, and heading to the kitchen to unload the dishwasher. It’s not writer’s block. Characters are talking to me, I have more stories to write than hours in the day, but I walk away.

And I find myself wondering, usually quietly, today publicly. Am I still a writer? Who am I today? Who do I want to be? I still want to write, but am I relevant? Do my words matter in a world I no longer recognize? WHO AM I?

Okay, my rant is finished. Have you ever had a total identity crisis? A collapse of your belief in yourself and the world? Tell me your story.

And in the meantime. I’m going to write 500 words, then 500 more, and maybe I can get back to who I was, or at least find out who I am.

Tari’s Books

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