The Years I Was a Rug Instead of a Writer

I only recently remembered that I’m a writer. You’d think it would be unforgettable; one of those inalienable truths. Yet here I am, 28-years in, unearthing it — sleuthing off years of dirt and doubt and desecration to reclaim the title as my own. Trying it on like a new boot; flexing my toes and relishing in the gentle groan of unfinished leather.

In a way it was both starting over and returning back to the start.

My dad says I was writing before I could even read. I’d line up my dolls, fan them out into a semi-circle, open up a picture book, and write. Real-time sagas and oral histories unfolded, transforming and mesmerizing audiences of plastic. The worlds I created were indefinite and lasting and malleable, and those qualities alone gave them excellence.

The trajectory was set, but it wasn’t set-in. Being a writer asks for imagination and practice and flow, yes, but a requisite is self-belief. While my childhood was filled with “You can do anything you put your mind tos”, children watch and imitate what they see, not what they hear. Anything’s expansiveness was shrunken by real life; by 9 to 5 realities and unfinished creative projects; by stereotypes of starving artists and the practicality of having “realistic” goals. I heard “anything,” but saw “anything within reason”; saw “anything…so long as it looks good on paper.”

So I pushed writing down and away; considered it a hobby, but not a calling.

And I became a rug instead.