I am (also) a writer.

The title page of Tea Obreht's novel The Tiger's Wife, signed by the author "To Jen, A fellow writer! Best of luck!" Photo credit: Mine

3 minute read

After the applause died down, I stood & waited patiently in line between the rows of folding chairs for the author to sign my copy of her first novel, The Tiger’s Wife.

It had been on my mind for weeks since I read it in nearly one sitting, and as I waited I clutched it to my chest. I watched her interacting with the folks in front of me, smiling at them openly while they praised her words and she thanked them. It was long enough ago that all the details are blurry, though I remember her radiance. When it was my turn I passed her my book and as she opened it she smiled up at me and asked me my name and what I did.

I opened my mouth but no sound came out for a few seconds. I was holding up the line. “I’m Jen…” I finally managed. “Um, well, I—I… blog a little bit…” I was stumbling over my words. I don’t even think I’d said hello.

“To Jen, A fellow writer! Best of luck!”

She scrawled it hastily, signed her name and handed it back with a grin.

As I read it, I defended myself against what felt like an accusation at best, a lie at worst.

“I—I’m not really a writer…”

“Blogging is writing” she smiled, shook her head and laughed merrily. “That’s good enough for me!”

There was no time for more than that; there were thirty people behind me who needed books signed and the bookshop closed at 9. I don’t know if I said anything else, or even thank you. Incredulous, I was reeling as I turned away—I felt dizzy and confused. How could she write in ink on a copy of her own book that I, someone she had seen for maybe 10 seconds, was a “fellow writer” on par with her, a gifted published novelist? How could she use an exclamation point to emphasize it??

I don’t think I did it right away that night after I walked back to our apartment, but know I was NOT in a headspace to embrace her well-meaning words as truth, or even possibility. I wasn’t in the mindset to accept her authority, as a writer herself, to know better.

I was not ready to accept this priceless gift she had offered me.

Instead I felt betrayed somehow by a total stranger, someone who thought she could call me a writer casually, just like that. She hadn’t even read anything I’d ever written.

At that point I had two blogs—one, an archived collection of some of my earlier travels, and a then-current one, a lifestyle blog with cute recipes and farmer’s market trips and I don’t know what else, but it painted a pretty picture of a happy domestic life. Something inconsequential to keep me busy. The first, well, I wasn’t that person anymore. The second, I knew I wasn’t that person either. I wasn’t happy. I had been lying to everyone.

We had been living in Santa Cruz, California for the past year or so, newlywed, so this would have taken place in 2012. After the wedding in June 2011 we had driven south cross-border, far away from friends and family. A car accident in the last few miles of our move had messed me up pretty badly as well, but that’s another story for another time. Upon settling into my new city, I had realized my spouse would be away at work a lot, but not that he would also work well into the evenings or be too exhausted to interact much when he got home. I couldn’t work, myself—no green card yet—and I slowly realized, that for one reason and another, that green card was never going to come. I began to feel nothing but pain and fear, not love for my then-husband nor love for myself. I did not want to bring a child into this situation. I was alone, I was lonely, I felt I had nothing meaningful to offer. I felt empty, afraid, and I was mostly afraid of myself.

I felt I wasn’t a writer, I was nobody. I could maybe be something of an artist, possibly, but I was not a writer. I am wasting my time with this blog, I thought.

It’s called cognitive dissonance when your thoughts and your experience don’t match. So to reconcile these differences, you either change your experience, or you change your thoughts. These changes can be made in helpful ways or unhelpful ones.

I am pretty sure I didn’t do it right away. Those days blur together. At some point in the days after the book signing I’m pretty sure I picked a fight with my husband about the green card and broke some dishes in the sink which turned into a panic attack followed by sleeping off most of the next day.

Best of luck? I had the worst luck.

It must have been a day or two later when I’m pretty sure I had the idea in the middle of crying my eyes out. I pulled myself together, logged into Blogspot and without a second thought, permanently deleted them both.

Dear Téa Obreht,

I am so sorry. You were right…

To Be Continued…

P.S. - We did the best we could—My ex and I are on good terms and I no longer hold any hard feelings. Obviously, I’m also doing MUCH better now.