As I revamp and refocus my blog, I am realizing that all this time I have focused on writing about, well, writing. That’s it. About contemplating writing, and psyching myself into actually putting my butt in the chair and typing. It happens. If I promise myself some chocolate afterwards. Or ice cream. Ice cream usually gets me to run to my desk. However, my life as a writer stems from who I am and what I do.
Here’s what you may not know about me:
I am a writer as a result of the life I was given.
As a child, I was not only entranced by books, but by life itself. I soon learned that life was driven by people, and so I was mesmerized by them. Each person was so different and interesting to me. I don’t know why but from a young age I watched the world closely. I noticed things about people that others didn’t, like quirks, things people would do when they were really uncomfortable, and nervous ticks. My family spent a lot of time together, and I watched them. I watched them closely. I didn’t want to miss a thing. I took note of my grandmother’s long, skinny fingers and how they all curled to the right when she was relaxed. The deep sadness that appeared and that is still present in my aunt’s eyes after my grandmother died. How my dad actually rubs his chin when he is thinking or trying to make a decision. How my sister’s eyes used to well with tears so easily and how she hid it so well from those around her. How each evening my mom would pull on her own hair, one strand at a time, while watching television. These things are imprinted in my mind. I can’t shake them, and I’m glad. You can read my post about why I write and why I think stories are important here.
Another thing I experienced as a child was not feeling well. It was an ever-present feeling of nausea, headaches, and fatigue. Most people told me I was imagining things. Maybe I was just too in tune with my body like I was with the world around me. I always felt sick, and it sometimes got in the way of things I wanted to do. But I pushed past it because nobody else really believed there was anything wrong. My doctors thought I was a hypochondriac. They smiled and gave my shoulder a squeeze. Their laughing eyes would say you’re fine. Go live your life, child. So I did. It would be be at least a decade before I really knew what was going on. And now I confront it, and push on each day. And I can only do this because I know I can rejoice in suffering, because it will produce endurance. Endurance will produce character, and character produces hope. That four letter word, HOPE, hope in Christ, my Rock, is what gets me through my worst pain days. In this way, fibromyalgia is not really an obstacle. It’s just one of the things that pushes me back to my desk, to my pen and to my fiction. Unless, of course, I’m too sick to get off the couch. But even then, I’m writing in my mind.
I’m a wife and a pastor’s wife, which are two very different roles that I take on every day. When I first started dating Mgo, he was in seminary. I fell in love with him, which happened because of a force outside of myself. I firmly believe that God made this happen, because I tried to reject the idea of love and marriage for most of my life. I never felt the desire or the need to fall in love, let alone get married. God had other plans for me. Because of my deep love for Mgo, I jumped into a life with him, not realizing what I was really getting myself into. He became a pastor, and by marrying him, I became a pastor’s wife. For those of you who are pastor’s wives, you know that this poses many hardships and many joys and blessings. For those of you who are not, you will get a glimpse into what it’s like. 🙂
Hi, my name is Tamar. I’m a writer, blogger, thinker, battler of fibromyalgia, wife, rookie pastor’s wife, and English professor.
And I’m probably spying on you.