As I recommence writing, I’m finding myself against a roadblock I have tried to overcome for 50 years as a writer of personal thoughts and feelings. As well as my strong opinions and yes, even judgements.
My topics are controversial in many arenas and in many individuals’ beliefs.
I have written about midwifery since 1983 and if birth wasn’t meant to be controversial, it sure is now. I am writing about my time as a midwife, not fully formed yet, but it is taking shape.
I’m writing about the gay life I was a part of immediately pre- and post-AIDS. If gay sex causing AIDS (yes, I know, a virus causes it. You know exactly what I mean. See? Already justifying myself?! Argh!) isn’t controversial, nothing else in the world is.
I’m writing, with full permission, about my former partner of 28 years’ transition from female to male. Our private choice to separate after his transition is an extremely volatile topic today.
The last book I have started that came to me in a dream, fully-formed and has not vanished yet, is a midwifery thriller. It’s going to be a great read when it is finished.
Self-Editing Sucks
I have been censored and edited by those around me, and many not even near me, for decades. I must have the thinnest skin of any writer in the world because I cower to the criticism. Even here in this blog, when I wrote about being a midwife to migrant women, I shrunk and hid the post because one person… ONE PERSON… spewed hate all over me. What I wimp I am.
I stopped writing about my kids because their father told me to stop.
I stopped writing about the inner workings of home birth midwifery because I was ostracized from my community for being a whistleblower.
I’ve edited articles, posts, notes on napkins, all with the fear of being judged.
As I write this, I am bracing myself for hate and vitriol, but I am a different woman now. I am a crone. I am in that place where I really do not give one fuck what anyone else thinks. They can’t take away my kids. They can’t take away my career/life’s calling. They can kill me, but my words will still exist.
Enough
I can finally see the extreme anger and hate from people as it swirls around them in all aspects of their lives. They believe they walk pristinely on the earth, their thoughts pure and hearts open. But I can see the truth. When they open their mouths, the bees fly out. The wild buzzing, stinging, hungry bees looking to feast on the pollen of vulnerable flowers.
I’ve taught my children and many others how to put up heart shields so the energy is exchanged at will instead of allowing energy vampires to attack the tender-hearted. It’s time I re-build my own shield.
Thank You, Elizabeth Gilbert
I am listening to Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic for the fifth time and on this read, something jumped out and bit me hard in my vulnerability. How I missed it four other times is beyond me.
As she speaks about the self-censoring in order to fend off critics, she has a fabulous response to those who dare open their mouths to pass judgment thinking their positions are The Correct and Only Position That Counts.
To paraphrase Ms. Gilbert, “Don’t like mine? Go write your own fucking book.”