To Write or Not to Write...

I'm a writer...really--look at my profile! So then, one would assume I write, right? Yeah, not so much. Oh, I write this blog which I love, although this nasty hot and humid Summer has found me sprawled in front of a fan with a book rather than in the office with the computer. I'm part of a new collective group of bloggers writing from a Goddess-centric perspective (my blog there is called Day by Day). I write the occasional essay for Sagewoman magazine, and once in a  great while, a poem will spring from my pen. And that's it. Doesn't make me much of a writer, huh?

Funny thing is, I've always wanted to be a writer, since my earliest days of shamelessly plagiarizing The Bobbsey Twins at the age of 7, and discovering haiku when I was 8 years old. From even that young age, I wanted to be able to write in a way that would make people say "that's exactly how I feel, but I didn't know how to put it into words!". Something has always stopped my attempts at it, a monster as insidious as mildew in a Summer like this one, with dozens of small razor sharp teeth, judgemental blood-shot green eyes, an evil, grating whisper of a voice whose every word is like barbed wire shredding flesh and spirit, a shape-changer who can assume the guise of stranger, critical friend, trusted parent, even--especially--the face in the mirror. Fear of Failure is the demon's name, and he's held me captive for decades.  Once in a while, I'd muster the strength and will to slip from his grasp, to run barefoot through the forest exalting in my escape, tossing glances over my shoulder and ducking ominous shadows, searching for pen and paper. But always he would hunt me down and drag me back into the dark, wordless dungeon. Sometimes the monster was truly seductive, reminding me oh so silkily, if one never tries, one can never fail; isn't that right? Why put yourself through that? In a world simply bursting with real writers, why expose what a poor imitation you truly are? You're safe here with me....

This past weekend, when I was at a very low point, stressed about work to the point of breaking, Linda asked me a question. Ashling, if you could do something, anything else, what would it be? And what would you need to do to make that happen? And once more the answer I've been giving for 45 years echoed in my head. I want to write. Coincidentally (or not so much coincidence?), the day before she asked me this I had picked up my copy of The Sound of Paper by Julia Cameron off the altar where it has lain untouched for over a year, and begun reading it, and had actually done two days of Cameron's foundational exercise--morning pages. This week Linda's question and my rote answer have run through my brain in an endless cycle. The monster's words chase the answer, but in a voice oddly like my own. It's the same old story: be safe, don't try. Dabble if you must, but stop calling yourself a writer, stop saying "I want to be a writer" like some tutu-wearing four year old declaring she wants to be a princess when she grows up.

But a strange thing happened this morning as I was rather petulantly doing my morning pages on the porch, wondering why I'm bothering, what it will accomplish. Another voice, shaking a little but sweet and clear, piped up. So what? What would 'failure' look like and what would it change?

"What would it change?" the demon roared. "She would finally know she's a failure, that her dream has been a waste of time, an impossibility, a bad joke!"

"You haven't answered the question. What would failure be? She doesn't publish the great American novel? She isn't declared the next Mary Oliver? She doesn't win the National Book Award? Those particular fantasies might not come to pass, but how necessary are they? If she wants to write, to touch others' souls, "to write in a way that would make people say 'that's exactly how I feel, but I didn't know how to put it into words'", it's time. The days, the years spin by faster and faster....the real truth is it's now or never.

The demon's sly smirk grows triumphant. "Then never it is!"

Ummm...hang on just a minute. NEVER? Never to write? Never to break free of  the monster? To spend every moment of the rest of my life in its embrace? Seductively safe, maybe....but with some pretty awful morning breath, ya know. I'm not so sure about never....I'm not willing to commit to never. Never is forever, and I just don't think I'm okay with that. It's about damned time I kick the monster to the curb, don't you think? What do I have to lose? So what if I 'fail', whatever that looks like.

At least I'll go down fighting.

Addendum

I'm so touched by the support my existential angst stirred up; it's good to know I'm not alone. Reading some of the comments, I came to one possible conclusion (well, a question leading to a possible conclusion): does the naming of a thing make it so? When Bambi called the skunk 'Flower', it didn't make the air any fresher, but both Bambi and skunk were comfortable in that truth. Then again, Shakespeare's rose is a rose no matter what it's called; call it skunk if you will but it's still a flower with all that entails, and there's little correlation between the odiferous mammal and the perfumed blossom. So we're back to square one....

Thirteen years ago, I changed my name. In the early days of my newly recognized spiritual path, I relentlessly sought out a magickal name, one for rituals and spiritual writing and such. For awhile, Rainwalker served the purpose, but it started to feel....awkward, a tool like an athame or wand, something I donned for the occasion like a ritual dress, separate from my soul. A random conversation in which I discovered that not one, but two of my adult friends, had changed their names years before got me thinking. If my spiritual path was part of me, if it defined who I was/am at my core, why have a name I trotted out only for special occasions? There was no question the name my parents had given me, while a fine one, was as poor a fit for me as Yeti the Australian sheepdog/collie mix sleeping on the cat bed. And the adult me was already so very different than who I'd been (and that metamorphosis was just beginning...).

So the search began for a name that would reflect my soul, remind me always of the Goddess-worshipping spiritual path I'd chosen. I considered then tossed in a  pile dozens of names until I found the one. The name was Aisling (which I spell phonetically). Aisling is the Irish word for dream/vision, and also refers to a form of poetry that personifies the land as a womon. Yeah, an internet search now brings up numerous variations of what constitutes an aisling poem, but in 1999, that definition was the most prevalent and spoke to my soul. And so, I became Ashling, devotee of the Goddess, especially in Her aspect as Brigid. It was a growing up, a commitment and initiation on a life path.

I named myself, and it became my truth, my reality. My truth.

You see where I'm going with this, yes?

So to Pat and Tammy, to those who question what right we have to name ourselves as writers or artists, let's do it anyway! Let's own who we are--or aspire to become. Let us revel in the freedom of doing rather than worrying the bars of self-made cages debating our worthiness to be in the company of those who share the name.

Hi! My name is Ashling, and I'm a writer and novice fiber artist.  Who are you?

What Is An Artist?

A writer....writes. Is it really that simple--the act of writing defines a writer? Is a writer someone who is published? If so, published in what, the school newspaper, a blog, the NY Times, best-selling novels? Is the person who is published in Time magazine more of a writer than the one who appears in Sagewoman? Does readership define writer?  How 'good' must  a writer be to be a writer, and who defines that level of quality? Am I a writer because I write a blog, write the occasional poem or essay, or because I've had the occasional piece published in places like Sagewoman, or because I say I am? If a writer is simply one who writes, how often does one need to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) to be a writer? This existential angst has been part of my psyche since I was about--seriously--eight years old. 40+ years later I still wrestle with it. 

And of late, I find the question arising again, as I look at my pretentious blog profile in which I not only call myself a writer, but also a 'novice fiber artist', a thing written as much to state intention as would-be reality. We've established I'm a remedial spinner and knitter (I do make a great farrow rib scarf, though), but I've been working with felt, wet and dry, for over a year. I've created scarves and altar cloths, vases, snow people, etc. and am in love with the almost-alchemy of felting. I'm happy with some of what I've made, disappointed with others, or rather, keenly aware of the flaws...the many flaws. 

This past October, Linda & I went to the NYS Sheep and Wool Festival. I posted about the scarf I made in a class for a dear friend here. The day Linda & I went was somewhat rushed; we had to do the same event we spent two days at the previous year in a mere four hours because we needed to get home to feed her foster kittens. It was a mad dash through, but on our way out of the last building, I pulled Linda down the book aisle. The previous year I'd encountered Sheepish on the book table, and loved every page (and a few weeks later bought Hit By a Farm by the same author), so I wasn't about to miss any treasures this time. At the far end, we were both caught and mesmerized by a piece of woolly art on display; it was there with the artist Lyn Slade, and her book, Creative Needle Felting: Wool Art With a Painterly Style. I couldn't plunk down my money fast enough! It's taken me awhile to finally start working with the book, but what follows are the photos of my first project, following her directions:

And the final photo, the finished....product? piece of art? 

I didn't create the original design. I worked from a photo and followed directions. This isn't my original work,  but as a non-crafty person, I have to admit to feeling mighty proud (and dare I say that while I see every one of my numerous flaws, I think my red-winged blackbird might be even a smidgen better than the one in the  book?). This took me so far out of my believed abilities and is so different than anything I've ever done. Do I think doing this piece makes me an artist? No. I didn't create the image or devise the technique; while it's not paint-by-number, it's at best a flawed copy of Lyn's exquisite piece. And yet....I'm proud of it. And doing it has changed me a bit. I recently watched a Winter sunset and found myself thinking about how to capture that moment in wool. I'm going to work on another of her projects beginning tomorrow, because that piece will teach me blending (one of my glaring issues with the sky in the piece above), and how to create the illusion of reflection. And when I finish that piece, the one to follow will be my own design. Already that worries me: who am I to design a piece of art? I can't draw a straight line (literally, even with a ruler; it's sad & scary to watch!). I'm not an artist, am I? At what point might I call myself a fiber artist (novice or not) and not feel like a pretentious fraud? I still feel that way when I refer to myself as a writer, but I don't see another 40+ years ahead to get over the qualms of naming myself 'artist'....and perhps I have no business doing so, now or ever.

So what makes an artist, or a writer? At what point does one earn the right to define one's self as either of those? Are you a writer and/or artist, and how comfortable are you with those words? What differentiates crafter from artist, or are they one and the same? What do you think? I really, really do want to know.

As for my rendition of Golden Meadow, it's going in my office at work, to remind me that my job is what I do, not who I am, and to make me smile at both the scene and the accomplishment.