Writerly Identity

I live in my head. Always have. Probably always will. I spend most of my days drifting off into what could be’s, what could’ve been’s, and endless self-reflection. It’s fictional in the sense that the scenarios aren’t real, but they always about me and the real people in my life; realistic fiction if you will. For a while, my borderline obsessive thinking about myself and my life made me think I was maybe a narcissist, like my father, but I’ve come to realize that I’m just an insecure perfectionist. Writing has always itched the part of my brain that begs for self-reflection. The part that wants to prove that there is some sort of obtainable perfection. There is no perfect writing, though I have read some things that I considered pretty close (usually just a sentence or saying from some sort of philosopher or poet), but allowing myself to take the time to write down my thoughts and feelings, they feel much more perfect on the page then they ever did in my head.

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In grade school, I tried to write stories all the time. The first step in my process would be taking as much paper as I could fit in the space between the base and head of the stapler, stapled the pages together, picked out the title, drew the cover page, and then proceeded to write about a page (maybe two if I was on a hot streak), and then get bored. I was about to write “so much paper wasted,” but I don’t think it was a waste. Sure, I didn’t use all the page, and as I am now a self-proclaimed environmentalist the though does pain me a little, but I was dreaming big. I was going to write a book damnit! And yes, none of them got finished, but these beginnings of half cooked ideas from a very young Lisa was also the beginning of my journey of a writer. As I have continued to write since then, for myself or for school or for work, I continue to step into who I am as a writer influenced by each and every piece I have produced, even those printer paper “books.”

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While I have wised up slightly from seven-year-old me’s process, it still influences my writing journey. I do make outlines now for longer pieces, but I have never believed in the “shitty first draft” as my therapist always call them. Perfection, it must be as close to perfect the first time. I will spend 20 minutes on one sentence if I have to, trying to find the right words and wording, emulating who I want to be rather than who I am. Writing allows me to transcend my being, into something more. Into a creator, a writer, an artist, anything that takes me out of my body and my reality. Writing is an invaluable tool to cope with my depression because of its ability to not only distance myself from my perceived reality, but to bring beauty to an existence that can feel so ugly at times. I think this is why I am drawn to a lot of poetry and philosophy, because many of those writers wadded around in the same pain, but they produced beautiful pieces to contextualize the mental and physical burdens of this disease, which so often make you feel so small and insignificant, into art that is bigger than all of us. It is so personal yet universal.

My need for personal reflection and contextualization through life’s events is why I think I struggle with writing fiction. I have yet to master how to create characters that resonate with my reality. I feel it is hard for my voice to come through in pieces of fiction because they feel so far removed from what I perceive as real and important. I spend most of my time daydreaming, but never once has it been about fictional things. Even if I were to write a piece that is straight from my life, changing the names depersonalizes it enough for me to be emotionally removed from the story. I’ve noticed that in many of my classes, if the assignment does not resonate with me, there’s a 50/50 chance I just won’t do it. If there is no way for me to make my voice heard, to write about things that I feel are important, it’s just not worth my time. This hasn’t always been true as I used to be driven solely by academic achievement, but now my values lie in making myself proud and only doing work that is a reflection of myself, not a reflection of an establishment. And yes, that doesn’t always serve me well as I am still in school, but it serves my soul and that will always be more important than any arbitrary grade I receive in a class.