I am what I am

These were famous words spoken by none other than Popeye. Aside from a fondness for spinach, our similarities end there. I wish I had his bulging biceps, but I am happy to report that I neither smoke a pipe nor do I have an emaciated and unfortunate looking girlfriend. Despite the fact that I am not much like Popeye, I am still what I am.

As it turns out, what I am not, is a writer. I know this for several reasons. First, I just don’t feel it in my bones. I don’t possess writer DNA. I do not have that certain je ne sais quoi that makes people feel confident to assert that yes indeed, they are…something. I barely feel comfortable calling myself a runner and I run several times a week, read the appropriate magazines, buy sneakers every 3 months, head outside for a 10+ mile run with enough gear to warrant needing a sherpa, and I enter races. Yet I still feel a bit like an imposter when my husband calls me “a runner”. I am a good actress, being a Leo and all, but not good enough to pull off the charade of calling myself a writer.

Another reason I know I am not a writer is that I have been away from it for quite some time while lodged under a mountain of manuscripts, progress reports, and experimental data, and I have not missed it enough to stop everything (until now) and put pen to paper. Or finger to keyboard. I thought about it. Oh, I thought about it wistfully as I took a little break from the chaos and perused the blogs I enjoy reading. I envied those authors their abilities to spin an intricate web of details and memories into a coherent story that had some kind of message or theme, as well as their desire to do so. It is as integral to them as breathing. I can say with certainty that I do not possess these…things…these intangible qualities, properties, or characteristics.

I could provide more reasons I know I am not a writer, but as a reader, you most likely already know them. That is not to say that I am going to discontinue sharing my musings with you. Au contraire. I just think you should not expect literary greatness. Or goodness. Maybe just ok-ness. And that’s fine. So what if I am not a writer? I am plenty of other things.

I am a daughter. I am a sister. I am a wife. I am a friend. I am a teacher, mentor, and leader. I am a nemesis. I am a pain in the ass. I am a drama queen. I am a shoulder to cry on and a rock. I am a scientist. I am a good cook and a nurturer. I am a size 6 when life is just so-so and a size 4 when the world is perfect. I am a bundle of nerves. I am a force with which to be reckoned. I am a nerd. I am a girlie-girl. I am a patient. I am an enigma wrapped up in a conundrum and wound tightly around a riddle.

But alas, what I am not, is a writer.