Tuesday, March 25, 2008 at 12:12am
What would happen if you said, 'I am a writer'?
Column: Writing Down Your Soul
Writing about Writing, Part 9
Did you see Paul Potts on Oprah? Wait. Let me back up. Did you see Paul Potts on YouTube? If you are one of the two or three people on the planet who did not, go there right now and watch the most amazing audition in the history of "American Idol" and its British daddy, "Britain Has Talent." If you've been wondering if Simon Cowell actually has a heart, watch and it will open before your eyes.
Well, after Paul won, he recorded an album, sang for the queen and toured the world, including America. While here, he appeared on Oprah. I caught a few minutes of him on her "After the Show" show. Oprah was chatting with Paul and his wife, and Oprah asked Paul if he was planning on going back to his cell phone job in England. She was joking, of course. She clearly expected him to say, "Of course not." But he didn't. Instead, he hesitated and said, "I'm on six months leave — in case this doesn't work out." I stared at the screen. "Paul," I shouted, "for God's sake, say it! Say, 'I am a singer!' How much confirmation do you need?" Lord, I thought, if Paul can't claim his talent, how can any of us?
Hearing him struggle to acknowledge that he is a singer — not a phone salesman — I remembered the struggles I've had defining who I am. It isn't that I haven't had titles. I've had plenty of titles. Over the years, when people have asked me what I do, I've pulled out a dozen, from "I'm a teacher of the deaf" to "I'm a special ed administrator" to "I'm a conversion coordinator" (don't ask) to "I'm a recruiting manager" to "I'm a headhunter" to "I'm a consultant." In the moment, each of those labels felt pretty good, but not for very long. Somehow nothing that came after "I am" felt like me — the real me.
I remember arguing with my boss when I was running the division of a search firm. The company had a new logo and was having new cards printed. My boss asked what I wanted for a title. I thought about it for a moment and said, "You know, I don't want any title. Titles are meaningless. I'd really like a card with just my name and nothing else." Well, you can imagine how far that got with corporate; I ended up with "Vice President/General Manager" under my name. But saying "I am a vice president" felt foolish. I don't think I said it very often.
In the late '90s, after I'd gone out on my own as a consultant, my world turned upside down and my consulting career quickly disappeared. I threw myself into daily deep-soul writing, not because I wanted to be a writer, but because writing got me through the day. Shortly after I started writing in my journal, beautiful poem-like prayers started showing up on the page — prayers that eventually became the "Spiritual Geography" healing system. But back then, I couldn't see a future; all I knew was that deeply moving, profoundly healing prayers were coming through my hand.
One evening during that intense writing time, I was invited to hear Jean Houston, a magnificent speaker and teacher, at Ruth Eckerd Hall in Clearwater. I arrived a bit early and sat down in the third row. A good-looking man about my age sat down next to me. After the smiles and small talk about how excited we were to hear Jean in person, he asked what I did. I thought for a second. I could hardly answer, "I'm a consultant," unless I was willing to say, "I am a currently unemployed and apparently unemployable consultant," but that didn't feel right. Before I could consciously formulate an answer or consider its likely impact, I blurted out, "I write prayers."
When I heard myself, I thought, "Hey, that sounds good. I like that. I write prayers!" And what a great place to make my declaration. There I was, surrounded by spiritual people drawn together to hear an important spiritual teacher. How perfect! And how wrong. I reached under my chair to get my journal, turned back to continue the conversation, and my row mate was gone. Gone. He may have been a deeply spiritual guy, but he couldn't wait to get away from a woman who writes prayers. I was taken aback and did not tell anyone else that "I write prayers."
About a year later, I went to a small meeting of consultants in the Tampa Bay area. As they went around the room sharing what they were working on, I conducted a fierce debate in my head: Should I tell them about the little bit of client work I have or should I tell them what I'm really excited about? Will they think I'm crazy? Will it change the way they think of me? If it does, is that a bad thing or a good thing? When it was my turn, I wasn't ready. But my mouth opened and out came, "I'm a writer. I'm working on my book proposal."
They stared at me. Oops, I thought, that's the end of me in this group. But a woman with whom I'd once worked cocked her head. "Are you really?" she asked. "That's so exciting. What's the book?" And suddenly I was having my very first public discussion of "Spiritual Geography." When I got to the car, I celebrated with a swig of water and a giant grin. "I am a writer," I said out loud. "I am a writer." Wow. THAT felt good. That felt right. That felt like all of me.
But the importance of that moment isn't that I'd finally found the answer to "What do you do?" (Although that's quite lovely and I get a kick out watching people's faces when I say it.) The importance of that moment is that from then on, it began to become true. Because I said it out loud. Because I believed it. Because I acknowledged my heart's desire and recognized my soul's purpose. Because I stood in my true center and said that this is true: I am a writer. Because I did that, I became a writer.
Which came first? The writing or the writer? Did I, the writer, start writing and consequently the writing career evolved, or did the writing itself enter my skin and morph me into this thing we call a "writer"? To be honest, I don't know. But here's what I do know: Say it. Say it and it becomes true. If you want to be a writer, stop thinking in the future tense and say it now: "I am a writer." Then, watch what happens.
So everyone now, let's tell Paul Potts, for surely he must know it by now: "Paul, you are a singer. An amazing singer. A beautiful singer. You can quit your sales job. Honest."
— — —
Janet Conner teaches people how to connect directly to Spirit to receive the guidance they need to create the life they want. Her new book, "Writing Down Your Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within," comes out this December from Conari Press. Learn more at www.writingdownyoursoul.com. Janet is also the creator of "Spiritual Geography," the deep-soul writing system that heals the broken heart. "Spiritual Geography" workbooks are available through Amazon or Spiritual Geography. Contact Janet at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}.© Copyright 2008 by Janet Conner.
Did you see Paul Potts on Oprah? Wait. Let me back up. Did you see Paul Potts on YouTube? If you are one of the two or three people on the planet who did not, go there right now and watch the most amazing audition in the history of "American Idol" and its British daddy, "Britain Has Talent." If you've been wondering if Simon Cowell actually has a heart, watch and it will open before your eyes.
Well, after Paul won, he recorded an album, sang for the queen and toured the world, including America. While here, he appeared on Oprah. I caught a few minutes of him on her "After the Show" show. Oprah was chatting with Paul and his wife, and Oprah asked Paul if he was planning on going back to his cell phone job in England. She was joking, of course. She clearly expected him to say, "Of course not." But he didn't. Instead, he hesitated and said, "I'm on six months leave — in case this doesn't work out." I stared at the screen. "Paul," I shouted, "for God's sake, say it! Say, 'I am a singer!' How much confirmation do you need?" Lord, I thought, if Paul can't claim his talent, how can any of us?
Hearing him struggle to acknowledge that he is a singer — not a phone salesman — I remembered the struggles I've had defining who I am. It isn't that I haven't had titles. I've had plenty of titles. Over the years, when people have asked me what I do, I've pulled out a dozen, from "I'm a teacher of the deaf" to "I'm a special ed administrator" to "I'm a conversion coordinator" (don't ask) to "I'm a recruiting manager" to "I'm a headhunter" to "I'm a consultant." In the moment, each of those labels felt pretty good, but not for very long. Somehow nothing that came after "I am" felt like me — the real me.
I remember arguing with my boss when I was running the division of a search firm. The company had a new logo and was having new cards printed. My boss asked what I wanted for a title. I thought about it for a moment and said, "You know, I don't want any title. Titles are meaningless. I'd really like a card with just my name and nothing else." Well, you can imagine how far that got with corporate; I ended up with "Vice President/General Manager" under my name. But saying "I am a vice president" felt foolish. I don't think I said it very often.
In the late '90s, after I'd gone out on my own as a consultant, my world turned upside down and my consulting career quickly disappeared. I threw myself into daily deep-soul writing, not because I wanted to be a writer, but because writing got me through the day. Shortly after I started writing in my journal, beautiful poem-like prayers started showing up on the page — prayers that eventually became the "Spiritual Geography" healing system. But back then, I couldn't see a future; all I knew was that deeply moving, profoundly healing prayers were coming through my hand.
One evening during that intense writing time, I was invited to hear Jean Houston, a magnificent speaker and teacher, at Ruth Eckerd Hall in Clearwater. I arrived a bit early and sat down in the third row. A good-looking man about my age sat down next to me. After the smiles and small talk about how excited we were to hear Jean in person, he asked what I did. I thought for a second. I could hardly answer, "I'm a consultant," unless I was willing to say, "I am a currently unemployed and apparently unemployable consultant," but that didn't feel right. Before I could consciously formulate an answer or consider its likely impact, I blurted out, "I write prayers."
When I heard myself, I thought, "Hey, that sounds good. I like that. I write prayers!" And what a great place to make my declaration. There I was, surrounded by spiritual people drawn together to hear an important spiritual teacher. How perfect! And how wrong. I reached under my chair to get my journal, turned back to continue the conversation, and my row mate was gone. Gone. He may have been a deeply spiritual guy, but he couldn't wait to get away from a woman who writes prayers. I was taken aback and did not tell anyone else that "I write prayers."
About a year later, I went to a small meeting of consultants in the Tampa Bay area. As they went around the room sharing what they were working on, I conducted a fierce debate in my head: Should I tell them about the little bit of client work I have or should I tell them what I'm really excited about? Will they think I'm crazy? Will it change the way they think of me? If it does, is that a bad thing or a good thing? When it was my turn, I wasn't ready. But my mouth opened and out came, "I'm a writer. I'm working on my book proposal."
They stared at me. Oops, I thought, that's the end of me in this group. But a woman with whom I'd once worked cocked her head. "Are you really?" she asked. "That's so exciting. What's the book?" And suddenly I was having my very first public discussion of "Spiritual Geography." When I got to the car, I celebrated with a swig of water and a giant grin. "I am a writer," I said out loud. "I am a writer." Wow. THAT felt good. That felt right. That felt like all of me.
But the importance of that moment isn't that I'd finally found the answer to "What do you do?" (Although that's quite lovely and I get a kick out watching people's faces when I say it.) The importance of that moment is that from then on, it began to become true. Because I said it out loud. Because I believed it. Because I acknowledged my heart's desire and recognized my soul's purpose. Because I stood in my true center and said that this is true: I am a writer. Because I did that, I became a writer.
Which came first? The writing or the writer? Did I, the writer, start writing and consequently the writing career evolved, or did the writing itself enter my skin and morph me into this thing we call a "writer"? To be honest, I don't know. But here's what I do know: Say it. Say it and it becomes true. If you want to be a writer, stop thinking in the future tense and say it now: "I am a writer." Then, watch what happens.
So everyone now, let's tell Paul Potts, for surely he must know it by now: "Paul, you are a singer. An amazing singer. A beautiful singer. You can quit your sales job. Honest."
— — —
Janet Conner teaches people how to connect directly to Spirit to receive the guidance they need to create the life they want. Her new book, "Writing Down Your Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within," comes out this December from Conari Press. Learn more at www.writingdownyoursoul.com. Janet is also the creator of "Spiritual Geography," the deep-soul writing system that heals the broken heart. "Spiritual Geography" workbooks are available through Amazon or Spiritual Geography. Contact Janet at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}.© Copyright 2008 by Janet Conner.