Notes on an Alter Ego

(I wrote this about two years ago and just found it in my documents file. This is a prime example of my struggle with self-worth. I'm very thankful that I have an opportunity to"work out" this issue in my life as I receive my wholeness in the holiness of Jesus Christ. The essay needs some work but it captured an important theme of my inner life for the last few years.)

Notes on an Alter Ego (or, Am I a Writer?)

While I’m making rice krispie treats in the kitchen for the Pastor’s BBQ tomorrow I think about what Laura said today, that I am a writer. Actually, Joanna said it, “Wow, you guys are writers!” after Laura described the book she is writing. I laughed and said I wasn’t considering myself a writer at the moment (because, truthfully, I am not currently putting anything on paper until tonight, if this counts.) So, I am not a Writer.
But Laura contradicted me, and said “Yes, you are.” Laura can be matter-of-fact, it’s something I like about her. Still, she is writing a book. I am currently at a stand-still in my writing.
This is a bit different than writers block. It’s more like a writing identity crisis. So, as the marshmallows are slowly oozing into a mash of lumps, I try to decide if I want to be a brilliant memoirist like Anne Lamont. Would I rather be a warm fuzzy novelist like Jan Karon, or a keen observer like Annie Dillard? I used to pine for novels and my desire to write was reserved for fiction alone, but with time I’ve changed. Somewhere along the way I realized one of my favorite authors also wrote non-fiction. When we were moving to Anchorage as newlyweds I read Madeleine L’Engle’s memoir of her life with her husband, Two Part Invention. I think that was when I started to connect with non-fiction as story.
Anyway, if I’m truly a Writer as Laura reminds me, why have I stopped writing? Why do I have to even put a label on my genre? I’ve got years of journals and notes, poems and letters to prove that I am addicted to it. I try to believe that I’ve a gift but in truth I haven’t become excellent enough at my craft. (And besides, I haven’t published anything. Unless you count that hideous love poem that I published in that thick poetry volume that you can buy for $49.95 to see your poem in print.) But it bothers me that I haven’t much to show for the years of dreams. I don’t work very hard at it and I let myself get discouraged. Then I decide that I’m no longer a Writer.
I pour the rice cereal into the marshmallow/butter ooze (Quickly! the recipe urges me,) and think about my daughters, who would love to be up making treats with me but are asleep in bed. We should have made these treats together, but instead we watched The Incredibles, again. I wish I was Elastigirl, the ultimate Mom in the movie who can flex into any shape she wants. I think my alter-ego must be a little more on the negative side. I can’t think of a name for her, but I can imagine her super power. She shrinks. By now you are aware of my propensity toward negativity. I see others failures almost as quickly as I do my own. In this case, I am not writing and why should I since it doesn’t seem to matter (even though I just read about David Sedaris writing journals for years and drawing his material from them though no one will ever read the journals.) So I give up altogether, so easily and then declare internally, that I must not be a writer. And someone else who knows a little about me can say, “Yes you are!” and I thrill to it and try again. (A case for community would be a great aside here.)
The treats are mixed and slide wonderfully into the pan with “the back of a buttered spoon” which works great. I know I could make these gooey things anytime now that I know that trick. Last time I made them I think I tried to shape them using wax paper and it wasn’t so much fun. I think of my alter-ego’s name: Justamom.
You know what I’m talking about, it’s what you answer when you are a stay-at-home mom and you are out at at party and someone asks you what you do, and you answer something like “I just stay at home.” Unless you are brave, in which case for effect you might say (if you are one) “I am a homeschooling mom” which can be worse because it makes you feel like more of a freak or because you literally are feeling so isolated already. That’s when Justamom shows up and shrinks you, just a bit.
There are a hundred ways and times that Justamom will show up in my day with the opportunity to shrink me. This can come in handy if I play hide and seek with the kids or if I need to grab a sock from underneath the washer, but not if I am seeking a backbone with which to go back to school or the pluck to actually publish my writing. I just simply do not want Justamom to show up when I am thinking I am still a whole person, even though I have chosen to be the manager of our home and to educate our children with the home as our base. I read something, I learn something, I am inspired by Someone, and she disappears, and I am free. But I feel her lurking where she especially loves to haunt me, at the washer and dryer and at the kitchen sink.
Which is where I am now, washing the sticky pan of warm marshm-ooze and rice cereal. These ingredients are stubborn, and I decide to give in and let them soak in soapy water so that I can take the time to go upstairs and write tonight. After all, that’s what a writer does, published or not. An alter-ego is great if she gives you super powers. Since Justamom only limits my abilities, I think I’ll write about her and let her go.