I am a writer!
I always pictured writers sitting at an old wooden desk, a glass of whisky in their hand, a cigarette in their mouth, and typing on one of those beautiful antique machines.
I never thought it could be an elegant woman in her early twenties, long like the sand, with a delicate fair skin like porcelain and large blue eyes like the ocean...nor that it could be a woman in her forties, tall strong and exuberant...nor a woman in her sixties, frail but exuding an amazing strength as soon as she talks, words filled with joy and wisdom.
I actually never could get a clear picture in my mind of a female writer. Not that I don't know some of the most famous feminine pieces, just that the romantic image of a young lady in the English countryside, writing in front of her window, listening to the rain, doesn't feel real to me. And to comfort me in this idea, the famous French women writers had this temper and attitude that they took from their fellow male authors, and were more likely to adopt their behaviour too.
So here I am, no wooden desk, no smoky atmosphere but incense burning, no whisky but a margarita time to time on a Saturday night, typing on this 1924 three bank Underwood typewriter, having this sense of deja vu while writing this sentence. The sound of the keys hitting the paper, the melody of the bell making me travelling to a past I have never been. Here I am, on the edge of proclaiming myself a writer, telling it to the world, with typos and forgotten letters because it is not that easy to work on this antique beauty.
People around me think it's just a hobby that I will be soon getting tired of. They don't know that my mind is bubbling, boiling with ideas, dreams, fears for those books I have within me. I am writing, struggling sometimes, begging inspiration to enlighten me, fighting my laziness or should i say my fear to succeed...just writing those last few words I can feel anxiety rising. Am I too scared to become myself ? Am I that fearful to be in the light for once ? That people may see me, that I won't be invisible anymore ? Does it give me freedom or chains? Is it my reason to finally step in, give and take ? Did I miss courage all my life ? Was I a coward ?
Maybe, maybe not...what I do know is that this is terrifying, stepping into the shoes of those I admired so much all my life, am I worth it ? It is almost like approaching God. Can I imagine my books in my shelves amongst Balzac's, Zola's, Kant"s, Montesquieu's, Flaubert's and many others' ? How can I triumph of that fear of not being good enough ?