This month, a glossy white book with large, bold orange and blue lettering which reads, The Titleless Leader, will arrive in my mailbox, just like it will arrive at various booksellers across the country. While this is a third book for me, reflections I've been struggling to understand are emerging at its birth; not about the writing of it, but about the writer.
It's taken a few decades for me to understand that I am a writer. I'm not a writer because I write books, or articles or blogs, but because writing it's how I "take-in" and process my world.
As if housed in my DNA, writing helps me discover what I think or feel or dream. It helps me make sense of what happens or doesn't happen. And as an almost off-the-chart introvert, writing enables me to express my thoughts and ideas.
But, it's more than that. Just like my musician father shared his soul through his music, writing gives voice to mine. Being a writer isn't what I do, it's who I am. My father earned his living as a Credit Union manager, but he came alive through his music.
That difference is more than words. I haven't chosen writing as my profession - it's chosen me as my expression.
Each of us processes and orients in our own way. Some people are runners, gardeners, singers, painters, dancers, crafters, organizers, teachers, inventors, designers, problem-solvers, caregivers, storytellers, nurturers. These may or may not be their profession, but it is how they experience their life's zest, and add their voice to their world.
Being a writer is different from being an author. Not because of being published, but because of being public. All my life I've been a writer. But, having people read my work when it's written from my own voice for others to react to, is less than a decade old experience for me. There is a rawness and vulnerability that comes with the sharing.
Yet, in the scheme of things, I've only found my voice with help. I realize that while I'm a writer alone, I'm an author because of others. From my eighth-grade teacher who planted possibility seeds of what I could do, to my mother who painstakingly corrected my sloppy spelling and grammar as a child; from bosses who gave me opportunities to develop my skills, to friends and family who believed in my dreams; from readers who encouraged my attempts, to my husband who picked me up after many setbacks, I'm an author because you helped me become one.
In the words of Althea Gibson, "No matter what accomplishments you make, somebody helps you." Thank you for helping me share my words.