e.m.claytor

“Whatever we plant in our subconscious mind and nourish with repetition and emotion will one day become a reality.” – Earl Nightingale

I can barely remember a time before the word “writer” was a part of my identity.  I was watching Dick Van Dyke reruns on Nick at Nite when I was 6, and I realized that I wanted to be a writer – a “head writer” actually. 

So, in school, when the teacher asked us the typical “What do you want to be when you grow up?” question, I responded proudly, “A Head Writer!”  I’m fairly certain I was beaming.  To my surprise, I was met with blank stares from both teacher and classmates. 

“A what?? A head waiter?”  This was obviously ridiculous – what was a head waiter anyway? 

“No! A head WRITER.”  Still – only blank stares. 

Of course in 1992 no one else was watching the 1961 black and white Dick Van Dyke Show (except for my best friend – thank God we had each other).

They couldn’t understand the significance of the term.  Rob Petrie was the head writer of the Alan Brady Show.  He and Buddy and Sally sat in an office all day and THOUGHT and created. And wrote. And re-wrote. And threw paper in the garbage.  And finally produced a beautiful manuscript – a work of art.  And Rob was their leader. 

I remember the episode where he decided to go to a secluded cabin to write his novel. Sitting down at his typewriter to a blank page.  Playing paddle ball waiting for inspiration to strike.  That was the life.  The pitter-patter of the typewriter. The ding of accomplishment when a line was completed.  That was work. That was fulfillment. That was the process.

And that’s what I wanted more than anything.  At 6 years old, I asked for a typewriter for Christmas. In 1992 — when computers were around and at the very least when electric typewriters were the norm.  Oh, but I wouldn’t have been happy with an electric typewriter.  I needed the ding. The pitter patter.  The crank of loading in the paper and the triumphant (or despairing) zip of yanking the paper from the roll.  The up and down movement of the ribbon in front of the words.  Waiting in anticipation for that completed page.  I could barely spell, but I knew I had to have that typewriter.

And Santa Claus saw fit to bring me one (apparently he had to hit up yard sales that winter and pray he’d run across one).  What a Christmas for an aspiring head writer. 

I spent countless hours a day banging on the typewriter or scribbling in my wide-ruled spiral notebooks – I wrote stories about the cartoon characters I saw on TV. I wrote poems. I wrote down observations like a tiny, weird Private Investigator.  This was likely not the most interesting material I produced since the neighborhood was delightfully quiet.  “Blue car drove down the street.  Blue car returned.” 

Somewhere along the way, I got interested in other things. I painted. I played guitar and piano which led to writing songs.  I thought at one point I wanted to act or model.  But every grade level I moved up, despite winning awards for writing and scoring in the top levels of writing in the state, I somehow found myself doubting the reality of being a writer. 

And how could I miss that message? It’s everywhere.

Starving artist.

You can’t write and make a living. You’ll have to write in your spare time.

Writing full-time isn’t realistic. Try something in math or science.

You could be an English teacher if you like writing.

You could write for a newspaper, but you’ll still be poor.

Think of a career that shows promise – something with computers.

You need to marry a rich man if you want to make a career of writing.

These weren’t the words of my parents.  These were the words of society. Of school. 

The same school that bragged on my ability to write sent me the message that my talent ultimately was not valuable.

I continued to write.  I wrote fan fiction (God help me). I wrote novels about teenage romance. I wrote mysteries.  I wrote songs.  I wrote poetry. I couldn’t stop writing.  At this point, I had definitely decided I wanted to be a songwriter for a living (though that dream would be crushed with a heaping dose of “reality” before college, as well).  But I still wrote.

Then senior year of high school, something happened.  I shut down.  I struggled to write. I could still bleed my heart out in a composition notebook, but writing research papers and class assignments were a strain.  I wondered if something was wrong with my brain.  I was trying to decide where to go to college even though I didn’t want to go to college. I was pressured to decide what I wanted to do with the rest of my life – realistically.  Why wouldn’t my ability to write temporarily shut down?  I was told it wasn’t a realistic option for my future.  Decide something else.

Well, if writing wasn’t an option, and not going to college wasn’t an option (because doggone it you’re too smart not to go), then I decided that philosophy was what I wanted to do.  I wanted to study Greek and Hebrew.  I wanted to learn about the religions of the world. The great philosophers. I wanted to think about thinking.  I wanted to write about religion. I wanted to make sense of my world.

Guess how that played out.

Everywhere I turned, my heart led me to career paths and dreams that were too idealistic.  Too much dream not enough cash. And I shut down.

It’s not surprising looking back on it.  Why wouldn’t I shut down? My voice was drowned out by the realists. The authorities. Society’s shout of money, money, money. 

How could I be a head writer creating art on a typewriter in a new progressive world of computers and logic?  Who would Dick Van Dyke be in this new world?

Strangely enough, I settled on majoring in Journalism.  I knew I could write.  And journalism seemed realistic – though my expectations for making money were tempered with the entry level pay of $19k.  And I knew I didn’t really want to be a journalist. I didn’t really want to be a newspaper writer. I wanted to write meaningful prose. Poetry. Creative non-fiction. I didn’t want to write obits. I didn’t want to write about the city council meeting or cover the success of the blood drive. 

But I honed my skills. I learned to research. I learned the business. And God help me, I didn’t become a journalist. I graduated in 2008 – the year the economy crashed.  Good luck with any degree.

So I played music for free. I worked part-time administrative jobs.  And I wrote my heart out in my composition notebooks. I read philosophy.  I wrote my own philosophies. I studied psychology and read Kierkegaard at work after I finished my administrative duties for the day (because I could get that mundane crap out of the way in way less than an 8 hour shift).  And I mourned that I was wasting my life away in an administrative job and couldn’t dedicate my time to writing, painting, playing music – doing what I was put here on earth to do – create.

My life has taken many turns since then.  In my struggle, I found a new passion – counseling.  I went back to school – this time on my own terms – and got a graduate degree in mental health counseling, and I saw all the things I loved being valued in this beautiful profession.  I learned new skills.  I learned to find my voice.  And I learned how to empower others to find their voices and callings, too.

And yet despite personal growth – you will often uncover some deep-rooted beliefs tucked away in the shadows every once in a while.

I found a new one a week ago. A big one.

A few months ago, I was working on an intervention for clients that would help them in the process of discovering purpose.  And, as always, I do the intervention myself before I ever use them with clients.  Through that activity I arrived at this statement: The purpose of my life is to tell my story.

Interesting. Vague.  But it has stuck with me. I’ve put it on my vision board.  And I can’t get away from it. I’m learning to speak up more. I’m learning to speak my personal truth despite the differing opinions of others – who are often louder and more convincing.

Since then, I’ve also been struggling with some health issues. I’ve been dealing with depression and severe migraines. I’ve been struggling with using my voice to advocate for myself and speak up when I’m unhappy or unfulfilled. 

So through this trial, I’ve written. I’ve soul searched. I’ve cried. I’ve written new songs. 

And one week ago, I was lying in bed, and I had this undeniable moment of clarity. I told my husband, “Oh my gosh. I don’t believe I can be a full-time, successful writer.”  

He’s used to these random epiphanies, so he responds, “Yeah?”

“I spend my days helping clients uncover their mistaken beliefs and cognitive distortions about their purpose and what they want to do with the rest of their lives, and I had no clue – I don’t believe I can be a full-time, successful writer.”  Those two words are important – full-time and successful.

Because, yes, I could be a writer.  I could write blogs.  I could write books.  I could do it full-time.  But – my belief was that if I did, I would be poor.  I would be struggling.  I would need to be married to a rich man. 

But to be full-time AND successful. Pipe dream. One in a million. Impossible.

And once I realized that I didn’t believe that it was possible for me, I suddenly had power over that thought.  And I said, “I absolutely can.” 

Carl Jung said, “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will control your life and you will call it fate.”  And though I don’t understand quite how that belief had so much control over me – I know that once it was brought into the light and made conscious, I could see it for what it was – an untruth. 

Since that moment, my mood has shifted.  I have also realized that joy is abundant and joy is for me.  I am not at this moment a full-time, successful writer, but I absolutely believe that it is possible and it is for me.

I will not stand in my way.

I’ve been working on a book on creativity for years.  I’ve had it in my soul.  I’ve written the outline and partial chapters.  And until now my core belief kept it in the dark. A dream. Not a realistic possibility.

And now I feel free to move forward.

I’m working on a book proposal. I’m looking for literary agents.  I’ve made an entire vision book (a multi-page vision board basically) dedicated to my career as a full-time, successful writer.

The purpose of my life is to tell my story.

And now I can work toward my purpose.  The resistance and the struggle has lifted – because my mind has shifted.

My belief is no longer “Life is not for me, and I can’t fulfill my purpose.”

My belief is “I am telling my story and moving toward being a full-time, successful writer.”

And you better believe that I will be banging out my story on an old school typewriter, treasuring every pitter, patter, ding, crank and zip.