“What do you do?”

I rebel against the notion that my identity is somehow defined by the work that I do and produce. It’s a simple question, “What do you do?” or “What are you?” and though I feel the inclination to respond with “writing” or “a writer” it feels a forced and disingenuous response. How am I to determine what I am? What are the criteria for which I should assess my abilities and activities to discover which defines my identity as an individual? Is it a measure of quality, which action I can perform to the highest degree with the lowest margin of error? If that is so than perhaps I should say “a cook” after years of F&B work I hardly believe that anyone in my life would disagree. Or is it a measure of quantity, how much of my daily life I devote to an action? If that is the case than I guess I should identify as a singer, but no-one would consider me a singer.

I started this blog to become a more consistent writer because despite the fact I go weeks at a time without writing it is the only activity that I yearn to do. It haunts me like a ghost that I need to exorcise. Then why does writing feel so difficult? Cooking requires so much to even begin: ingredients, appliances, space to work and time to cook. Writing needs pen and paper, and a working brain. Theoretically I should be writing at least twice as much as I cook. Writing requires not half the amount of resources as cooking so why is it my most neglected activity? It’s because when I write, I am my own limitation. If I am cooking I am limited by my ingredients, my appliances, my space and my time. I cannot make a standing rib-roast in five minutes with two eggs and a cup of yogurt. No matter what I produce in a kitchen I can always blame my resources if the product is not satisfactory. I can say the ingredients were too limited, or of poor quality, that the appliances were in disrepair. If I produce writing that is not satisfactory, I am solely to blame. A crappy pen or thin paper doesn’t make bad writing, bad ideas and poor execution does. A bad writer won’t get any better if they’re given different instruments.

 That is why I rebel, if I am a writer, if that is my identity, than my worth as an individual is tied to an activity that I’ve done periodically and shared little. It would mean that my identity isn’t known to others and that their ignorance to it is my fault. I’ve always highly regulated my speech, both what I say and how I say it. The permanence of writing has served to exasperate this behavior when I decide what to write and how to write it. I’ve fretted over nearly every sentence in this post and questioned whether something like this belongs online or in my journal. But I’ve always kept so much of my writing in my journal, for my eyes only, that my uncertainty in what to write has only grown. If I’m going to find my voice, I am going to have to be certain in what I share and to be vulnerable in my sharing until I reach that point.