No matter what you say, I am By Pamela Fagan Hutchins

By Pamela Fagan Hutchins

Many of you, like me, wrestle with the question of whether you “deserve” to be something. A parent. A computer scientist. An athlete. Or in my case,  a writer. Whether I am a good enough writer. Whether I am really even a writer at all or just some Karin Slaughter wannabe. 

It can be exhausting, right?

But it persists. I imagine snide comments from unseen naysayers: “So where do you get off, calling yourself a writer? You write for a digital publisher. You’re not a real writer unless your books are on the shelves of Barnes & Noble/your book is adapted for film/your book reaches the New York Times bestseller list.”

But is it only reaching certain arbitrary signposts that makes one a writer? Because I believe I was a writer long before my first book came out.

I am a writer.

 I write because it’s in my DNA. It’s what I do, how I express myself, how I make my living. In my former day job as a workplace investigator, I cranked out a couple of 5,000-word reports each month for an hourly fee—a large hourly fee, which technically made me a paid writer. 

How about teaching writing? Does that factor in? I taught it to wannabe lawyers at the University of Texas School of Law. But it was legal writing, and trust me, legal writing is boring and repetitive . . . and did I mention it’s boring and repetitive?

I’ve written a lot of books. Thirty-two novels. A few novellas. A handful of nonfiction books. I’ll write many more before I’m through. And even that is not enough. For goodness’ sake, the volume of my Facebook status updates alone qualifies me as a writer. I can’t help it. 

I call myself a writer, not because of any of that, but because deep down, where hope incubates belief, I am a writer. It is a matter of identity. It’s not that I am a writer of narrative nonfiction or business publications or harassment-investigation reports or even crime fiction.

I am simply a writer.

When I need to explain myself, I turn to writing. When I want to share my feelings, I write them down. I courted my husband with my written words while he wooed me with his spoken ones. I hate the telephone—I want to put it in writing. Sure, I’ll take a meeting but expect to hear from me in writing afterward.

I struggle with doubts, like every other writer I know. I flail at what I feel is inadequate success because that is who I am. “A challenge,” a tiger, the General, overly dramatic, moody, emotional, a hormonal werewolf. I am driven, goal-oriented, type A, and a little OCD. My closest friends know that I am reclusive and borderline antisocial. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m agoraphobic, but I hate to venture out of my house unless it’s with my husband. When he’s not around, I can go days on end in my pink flannel sleepy sheep PJs without leaving the sanctuary of my carefully arranged tower of pillows that form the chair back to the chair bottom provided by my mattress.

All of these things, yes, which frankly qualify me to be a writer.

I am also simply a writer. 

A writer who is not as good as I want to be but is getting better with every word bled onto a page. I am fifty bajillion times better than when I started. And I won’t fulfill my potential—however modest—unless I keep writing. I may write five more novels before the potential gels. I dunno. I do know that if I stop, it will stagnate.

I write to be a better writer because I am a writer.

Every time I sit down to write, I feel another piece of the puzzle fall into place. Maybe I will finally understand how to rewrite my way out of a problem whose solution has eluded me for months or years. Maybe I make my novel better. Tighter. Tenser. Faster. Let’s say it’s the best I have done so far. That it’s the best I was capable of as of yesterday.

It is not the best I will ever do, or better than what I will write today.

Because three more books from now, I will have grown. Every single time I feel like quitting because it’s so hard and it isn’t happening fast enough for me, I will have a cry and try again. On days when a story has me by the throat and I fail to sleep through the noise in my head, I will rise at 3:00 a.m., make Earl Grey tea, and write.

I have no idea on any day whether what I write will suck. I can edit it tomorrow and it may still suck. It may always suck. 

It will still be worth every second I invested in it. It will be forevermore a part of my becoming, as a writer.

So, I will tilt my chin toward the sun and, just for today, I will believe. No one has to bless my writing to deem me a writer.

I breathe. I walk and talk. I eat, I sleep. I write and am a writer. 

And I won’t let anyone tell me any different.

—

Pamela Fagan Hutchins is a USA Today bestselling and Silver Falchion Best Mystery winning mystery/thriller/suspense author (and recovering attorney and investigator) who splits her time between an off-the-grid lodge on the face of Wyoming’s Bighorn Mountains and a rustic cabin on Maine’s Lake Mooselookmeguntic with her husband, kids and grandkids, rescue pets and sled dog, and draft cross horses.

HER BURNING LIES

As a blazing wildfire rages through Kearny County, homes are destroyed and the town is in turmoil. Amongst the debris, the body of a young woman lies totally still, her eyes looking to the sky, a silver sword pinning her to the ground.

When fire wardens search the scorched remains of an abandoned farmhouse, underneath the rubble, they make a shocking discovery—a young woman, stabbed and left to die in the middle of the fire zone. Detective Delaney Pace and Sheriff Leo Palmer are called in to investigate.

Leo takes in the woman’s petite features, his voice shaking as he turns to Delaney. He knows the victim—they had met on an online dating site. How did she end up in the middle of the wildfires, and who would want to kill an innocent young woman?

As a second body is discovered at a remote ranch, also stabbed with a silver sword, Delaney is sure the victims are linked—both young mothers, both looking for love. Could Kearny County have a serial killer preying on single women?

Delaney’s heart pounds when she learns that her close friend, Clara Eckhardt, is missing, last seen driving towards the fires. She ignores the evacuation orders and races towards the inferno. But when shots are fired, she knows the murderer has her in their sight. Will she turn back and save herself or chase the killer further into the fire to save her friend’s life?

If you like Lisa Regan, Mary Stone and Robert Dugoni, you will love this completely gripping crime thriller from USA Today bestselling crime author Pamela Fagan Hutchins.

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Category: Contemporary Women Writers