by Tara Meissner
My husband Mike knew I was a writer before I did. He left a notebook for me on the nightstand by my hospital bed in 2010. When I woke up, it was there, but my husband was not. Waking up from a psychotic episode is a terrifying experience. After days of living through hallucinations and delusions, I had no idea what was real and what was imagined.
Finding that notebook grounded me in remembering who I am. It was a symbolic and tangible tool to helping me find health and self while sorting through a bipolar diagnosis. I was a professional writer most of my adult life. Yet, I never completed a book and therefore didn't think of myself as a writer.
I had about a half dozen novels started, about thirty long-hand, personal journals, hundreds of crappy poems, and a maybe twenty short stories. These were things I hid even from my husband, who believed I was a writer even without seeing the material.
While I didn't consider myself a writer, there were plenty of clues along the way.
I remember writing in a childhood diary; it had thin paper with silver lines and a symbolic, albeit useless, padlock. I liked that it could lock, because I was embarrassed, and I didn't want anyone to see my words scrawled in messy penmanship. I felt more like a girl with secrets than a writer.
I won a school-wide, song-writing writing contest in the fourth grade. We had to rewrite lyrics to a Christmas song and make it into an Easter song. I did the "Twelve Days of 'Easter.'" I did it because it was fun. I didn't really feel like I was a writer when I won that either. I was again embarrassed when everyone read my song.
When I was 20, I rented a two-bedroom apartment. I didn't have a roommate, child, or significant other, but I wanted the extra room for an office. (Think Virginia Woolf and A Room of One's Own.) In my spare room, I set up a word processor on a thrift-store desk. I would write short stories, which no one ever saw.
During this time, I was a wannabe writer. I bought beautiful notebooks. I hung out in coffee shops. I wrote crappy poems. I read "The Writer" and "Writers Digest." I attended writing conferences. I participated in writing circles. These were my faking it years.
Thirteen years ago, I started working full-time for a newspaper as a city beat reporter. My business cards gave me the title "staff writer" rather than reporter. I liked that. I jotted my interview notes in Steno notebooks and plunked out news articles at the computer.
I saved every article; I still have them in seriously heavy Rubbermaid totes! I also saved every thank you card and fan mail I received. It was like I needed evidence that I was a writer.
These days, I don't write in fancy journals. I still hang out in coffee shops. Mostly, I write on yellow legal pads or in composition notebooks. And for the first time, I can say without embarrassment or nervousness that I am a writer. I also know I will finish those novels!
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Tara Meissner is a former journalist and a lifelong creative writer. She holds a Bachelor of Arts Degree and works part-time at her local library. Tara lives in Wisconsin with her husband, Mike, and their three sons. She writes longhand in composition notebooks. Stress Fracture: A Memoir of Psychosis is her first book.
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