Tattoo You

Seems a lot of my friends have tattoos. My bestest friend does. And I would say about 50% of the time, I would like one. The other 50% I don't think about it. Nothing in particular holds me back. I've spent so many years off and on hooked up to so many I.V. drips, tubes, and machines, that needles don't scare me in the slightest. I don't know if my not getting a tattoo is a lack of motivation or, more likely, that my father would kill me. And yeah, he'd get over it, but maybe it's something best left for when he goes to that great Hell's Kitchen bar in the sky, where the beer is always cold, flowing and FREE. Then again, longevity is on his side of the family, so he could likely live to be 90. In which case, sooner or later I might just get one and the hell with it. In addition, he went blind this year, so it's not like he could SEE it.

If I got a tattoo, the picture is what I would get. Bonus points if you know what it is. First correct guess, in fact, will win one of my backlist titles. So guess away.

However, I wrote this somewhat lighthearted post because I was thinking about SPY'S post. What makes a writer? When do you get to call yourself novelist or author? What's the difference between people who identify themselves as authors versus those who say they are writers? And I got to thinking about identity.

Then I got to thinking about my grandmother. You see, if she was here, today, and we had ONE day to spend together (which, until we figure out how to bring people back from beyond is not going to happen), I don't think I would mention a SINGLE WORD about being a writer. Because I don't think she would be particularly proud of my having a book. Or 20 books. I don't think she would care one way or the other. And I wouldn't waste my breath telling her about them. It's not that she wouldn't be proud or happy--it's just I don't think she'd measure me any differently for "accomplishments." She loved me for being Erica. That's it. I mostly just had to breathe and show up to play 500 Rummy, and she loved me. Unconditionally. I was lucky that way to have her. So if we had one day together, instead, I would tell her all about my kids. THAT mattered to her. About my prayer life. About going to church. About what I ate--she liked to talk about food. About my guy. We'd laugh a lot. We'd play cards.

And I realize, somehow, that writing is a vehicle for me to have the life I have. To sit in my pjs and make up stories. To be here for my kids 24/7, much as days like today, I need that tattoo (guessed yet?). You see today, one of my babies had FOUR teeth pulled, and the 2-year-old decided I was paying too much attention to poor toothless, bleeding girl and so he decided to have a meltdown SO intense for THREE hours that I was ready to call an ambulance. For myself. So I could go to a place with rubber walls and white coats and QUIET. You see, life has changed of late here, and long story, but I'm now, for all intents and purposes, because of night shift work, a single mom. And with four kids and only one of me, it's grueling.

So anyway . . . I thought . . . what is my identity? Does it matter what I call myself? Am I simply a happy human being? I used to think I wanted a tattoo that said something about who I was. Now . . . . I think I would want one that was about something beyond. That transcended labels.

So if you got a tattoo, what would it be? Do you HAVE one? And do you own this label of being writer? Author? Novelist? Is it important to you?