Rebirth of a writer

Finding a new way to write.

Photo by Andraz Lazic on Unsplash

I’ve been making a living as a writer since 1997 but now I’m transitioning into a new role as a therapist. My articles have been published in Al Jazeera, CNN, Harper’s Bazaar and other respected media outlets; I’ve done copywriting for brands like Apple and Colgate, and have had stories published in fiction anthologies and literary magazines in the U.S., Canada and Asia. As a professional writer, I harbored hopes of publishing a bestseller (or at least something that would make the Top 10 list at my local bookshop). I wanted to birth a book that would make an impact in the world. But this hasn’t happened, and it’s OK.

Writing takes up a lot of time and headspace, and these days as I give more of my attention to the lives and stories of others, I find my capacity to write shrinking. Most days I happily embrace these changes, but a part of me grieves the death of my “writerly self” and the dream of leaving my written mark in the world.

I’ve been attempting to kill — or at least sedate — my inner writer, but these attempts have only led to increased unease and compulsivity with regards to writing, and guilt around not writing.

“Letting go of writing” was one of the intentions I brought into my most recent ayahuasca ceremony. This was what I received working with the medicine: “It’s not about whether or not you continue writing, what you write about, how often or how well you write. The question to ask is ‘Why are you writing?’” I understood exactly what the medicine was telling me. The question I had to ask myself is: “Am I writing for me — my need to persuade, sound intelligent or wise, get likes and followers, become famous, be seen and heard, put another byline on the bedpost? Or am I writing for we — to quietly and unfussedly add to the collective experience of ‘being human’?” Words can be weapons of harm or gifts of healing. Their effects are gentler when whispered rather than shouted, more harmonious and resonant when tinkling like bells rather than blaring like bugles.

Perhaps this is why poetry is so powerful. Because unlike many other forms of writing where rhetoric is used to make a point, poetry gives readers the space to find or create their own meaning.

The poem below — a beautiful gift from fellow writer, psychotherapist and meditation teacher Jayne Gumpel — helped me see that I didn’t need to murder my writer self in order to walk a new path.

The Flame and the Shadow

By Jayne Gumpel

The student said,

“Master, I am tired. The world is heavy. Should I put down this dream?”

The master replied,

“If you put it down to rest, it becomes your burden.

If you carry it with love, it becomes your wings.”

The student asked,

“But what if the dream never comes true?”

The master pointed to the sun and said,

“Does the flame ask for applause?

It burns because it must.

When you stop burning, you become your own smoke.”

I now see: Nothing needs to be written, nothing at all. There is only what wants to be written. If I don’t want to write, I won’t write. I will write only what I want, when I want, however I want.