Running With Scissors

I am an artist

I think about the titles and roles we give ourselves—and the ones others give us. When I was 20 and in art school, my best friend Cathy would introduce me as, “my friend Angie—she’s an artist.” She meant it. I didn’t. I would never have introduced myself that way at the time. Claiming the title of artist took a long, long while. It took commissions. It took several art shows. It took proof, apparently, before I allowed myself to say it out loud.

I am a writer

I accepted the title of author—of writer—much faster than I ever did in my visual art life, which I am still sauntering along in. And loving, mostly because now it’s just for me. The making, the process, the quiet of it. Even so, with nearly 20 awards and nominations behind me, I still give a little giggle when I say “International Award Winning Author” out loud. And then I always add, “I don’t know why I’m laughing—because it’s true.”

Running With Scissors

Recently, I read Running With Scissors by Augusten Burroughs. It’s a memoir—sad, shocking, and funny in turns.

Near the end, Burroughs writes about the idea of being an artist:

“What do you want to be when you grow up? Are you still going to be hairdresser to the stars?”
Without knowing why, I answered, “I’m going to run away to New York City and become a writer.”
Natalie looked at me. “You should, you know. You’re the writer in your family.”
I laughed. “Oh, barf. I’m not going to be a writer. I’m not even going to get into college.”
“Sure you would,” Natalie said. And the look on her face told me she believed it completely—and felt slightly sad that I didn’t believe it too.
“Well, thanks.”
“You underestimate yourself, you know,” she said.

“How?”

“Because you’ve always been a writer. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve had that pointy nose of yours tucked into some notebook. You’ve lived with my family and noticed every single thing about us. God, it’s spooky how good you are at imitating people.”

“I can’t be a writer,” I said. “I don’t even write. All I do is scribble stuff in notebooks. I don’t even know what a verb is, or how to type, and I never read. You have to read Hemingway or whatever to be a writer.”

“You just have to take notes.”

Thank you, Mr. Burroughs.

So there it is. According to him, anyway. I have spent most of my life taking notes—journaling the world as I move through it. I’ve put in my 10,000 hours. At this point, maybe ten million. I have practiced. I have paid attention. And yes, I have a hell of an editor.

I am an author. I am an international award-winning author.

Full stop.

No laughter this time—just a quiet, accomplished smile. And, I’m still writing–and making art.

As always, thank you for reading, Lovelies.