I am not my writing, my therapist made me say. But even as my lips formed the words, my heart disagreed, and strongly. Of course I am my writing; my writing is me, excavated from my guts. What could be more me than my writing, I ask myself indignantly, alone in my condo. I say this aloud, and the dog wags uncertainly at the emotion in my voice.
Before therapy, the introspection would have ended right there: the therapist is wrong, I am right. But it is after therapy and what’s more, after forty on the biological clock, and the introspection continues, albeit in the voice of the therapist-that-is-wrong: OK, so if I am in fact my writing, what does my writing say about me?
I go to my writing to have a look….. and my writing tells me I am a lot of things that I know that I am not, that I wouldn’t want to be: a vampire who kills his dog and then his sister, a rapist-hunting werewolf , a woman who falls in love with her tapeworm, a man who makes a deal with the devil, a dead girl on a riverbank, surrounded by cattails stinking in the sun.
Does the character create the story, or does the story create the character? A writer should know, but I do not: like a Mobius strip, the answer simply melds into the question, which becomes, again, the answer.
But what if I threw your writing away, said the therapist, reasonably. You’d still be here; you would survive the experience of the disappearance of your writing, would you not? You are NOT your writing, she said. You are MORE than your writing.
When she tells me the news that she is leaving her practice, I wonder who she will become. I see her only once more, this woman who is not a therapist. It is two years later, at a restaurant. I spot her across the room, eating pasta primavera with a handsome older man.
I pause at her table as my party leaves the restaurant. Hi, Jane, it’s good to see you, I say shyly, and she looks at me with a smile and utterly blank eyes and says, I’m sorry – who are you?
reliablyuncomfortable 
Captivating… Really loved reading this
Good one
Wonderful.
Thanks Carol!
excellent piece
thanks Linda!
A great piece that many of us can relate to as writers. I’ve just recently began blogging as my writing outlet. Whether I’m a good writer or not, I have to write. I’m a confirmed introvert so writing gets me out of my head.
How interesting – writing puts me deep inside my head. I find people unbearable after I’ve been writing.
Yes it is. I’m somewhat introverted so I’m not prone to conversation. Writing allows me to communicate my thoughts through the medium that I’m most comfortable with. I tend to write about whatever interests me at that time.
Same here! This is therapy in it’s self! Writing takes you to depths into your intellect like you’d never believe
Yes it is. Writing is my go-to therapist, allowing me to organize my thoughts. My biggest challenge at this point is discipline. I’m always so excited to share my thoughts with others that I don’t always take enough time to edit my work. I’m still working on my lack of patience.
That’s ok because that’s the authenticity of your passion of your work
Thank you. I do love shaping and bending words into meaning. The written language has always been my preferred medium.
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“The answer simply melds into the question, which becomes, again, the answer.”
Wonderfully said.
thank you!
This piece has my mind thinking! great piece!
it’s always good to think.
mostly.
You should have said, oh – don’t you remember me without my writing?
THAT WAS THE PERFECT COMEBACK. lol
Hi, You have done a great job! Keep it up buddy!
On Fri, Sep 18, 2015 at 12:20 PM reliablyuncomfortable wrote:
> Sandra S. posted: “I am not my writing, my therapist made me say. But even > as my lips formed the words, my heart disagreed, and strongly. Of course I > am my writing; my writing is me, excavated from my guts. What could be more > me than my writing, I ask myself indignantly, al” >