Whoopi Goldberg Told Me to Be a Writer
Okay. Technically it was Deloris Van Cartier--but I think we can all agree using Whoopi's name makes for a catchier title.
It’s amazing the clarity one gets when they sit still long enough.
Two weeks ago, I learned I didn’t get one of the jobs I had applied to days after I was laid off in May. And instead of feeling rejected and dejected, I felt oddly relieved. The job (and company) both sounded like a cool opportunity—but it’s surprising how much can change in six weeks.
When I first found myself unemployed unexpectedly at the start of May, my first initial emotions—after shock, of course—were that of dread and worry. Would we be able to pay our bills? Would we be able to support ourselves, even if we cut back drastically? My gut reaction was to launch into a job search—but everyone, from my husband and trusted friends to strangers on the internet, recommended I take some time to grieve and self-reflect. Essentially, take a breath and sit still for a moment.
If you are neurodivergent, you know just how hard it can be to sit still.
But I’m so glad I did.
A lot has happened since May 1. My grandma has been in the hospital more often than out of it (before ultimately passing away on July 1), and my dad, brother, and one of my aunts have also had trips to the ER. My mom has been trying to be the glue, coordinating everything from oxygen tank drop-offs to making sure my dad doesn’t push himself too hard at his age, and I’m trying to be there for her, both physically and emotionally. Friends have overwhelmed me with encouragement and advice and support, and I’m still working on responding to every single message I’ve received. I’ve decluttered and we’ve officially emptied our storage unit. Our downstairs neighbors moved, and we’ve had contractors in and out of the vacant unit. Most recently, I’ve been focused on prepping for my grandma’s memorial service—writing her obituary, compiling photos for slideshows and posters, and helping my mom and aunts remove things from her apartment.
Aside from an obituary and what I’m going to say at her funeral tomorrow, there hasn’t been much time for writing.
And I miss it.
Right now, I’m taking the time to miss my grandmother. But after tomorrow, another new normal officially starts. During times of grief, keeping busy is how I cope, and I am trying to take moments to be still and actively grieve.
But life goes on.
And these past six weeks have brought a lot of clarity as to how, if I have any say, I want said life to look like going forward.
I want to write.
Have you seen the movie Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit? If not, it’s the sequel to the equally excellent Sister Act. Starring Whoopi Goldberg, the first movie focuses on a club singer named Deloris Van Cartier (Goldberg) who hides out in a convent when she witnesses a murder at the hands of her ex-boyfriend. Hijinks ensue. Dubbed ‘Sister Mary Clarence,’ she takes over the choir of nuns, learns a thing or two herself, and by the end of the film they’re all friends.
In the sequel, Cartier is a headlining act in Vegas when she learns the convent is now in charge of a high school and needs a choral director. Cartier decides to help out, and similarly to the first movie, hijinks ensue. She returns as Sister Mary Clarence, takes over the youth choral group, helps them learn a thing or two, and by the end of the film they’re all performing showstopping numbers at a choral festival.
Why share all this? Because the first time I realized I loved writing was because of Whoopi Goldberg Sister Mary Clarence Deloris Van Cartier.
There is a scene in the second movie, where Goldberg chases after a young Lauryn Hill, in an attempt to encourage her to embrace her love of singing. After monologuing about the Icecapades, she gives Hill Rainer Maria Rilke’s book Letters to a Young Poet and says the following:
“He's a fabulous writer. A fellow used to write to him and say: ‘I want to be a writer. Please read my stuff.’ And Rilke says to this guy: ‘Don't ask me about being a writer. If, when you wake up in the morning you can think of nothing but writing, then you're a writer.’ I'm gonna say the same thing to you. If you wake up in the morning and you can't think of anything but singing first...then you're supposed to be a singer.” - Sister Mary Clarence AKA Deloris Van Cartier, from Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit
With the exception that, as a part-time insomniac I think about writing before I fall asleep, this was a moment of clarity.
As a kid, I was always starting new stories in notebooks or on my old computer (sadly, almost all are long lost due to poor organization and transfer of files, thanks to ADHD and time). At present, my phone’s notes app is littered with ideas, concepts, quotes, links—all stories I can barely contain, just craving for their own 8.5x11” scrap of paper, like still hopeful millennials crave home ownership.
Whoopi Goldberg isn’t a personal hero, and in recent history has had more than a few wild takes on The View. But at one point in time, at the height of her popularity as a damn funny comedian and one hell of an actor, she spoke this simple line. A simple line of dialogue that got lodged in my brain, like the catchy hook of a Sabrina Carpenter song, and even though sometimes it moved around my mind—sometimes closer to the front, other times lying dormant in the deep recessed corners—it was always there.
To finally understand that, when I was five and I blurted out “EVERYTHING!” after I was asked what I wanted to be when I grow up, the most literal interpretation of that is to suck the marrow out of life’s bones and tell stories about the human experience.
Not gonna lie, this is making it quite hard to focus on the traditional job search, when all I want to do is:
Buy a one-way ticket to Portugal or Spain
Find a picturesque balcony window over a busy street (or soothing sea view or sit at a cafe with a glass of port wine)
Pour every single story out of my soul as fast as my fingers can type or write, until they cramp so badly I will have no choice but to let them rest for 5-7 business days.
I’m sure many people would love to spend their days painting or writing or sketching or singing or crafting or creating or gardening or whatever makes their heart sing. And sadly, we live in a world where money pays the bills and keeps our bellies full, not poetry or landscapes or cinematic masterpieces.
But something clicked for me the other day, as I sat by the river at a brewery, diving into an inceptious book about a writer adapting her book about a disabled mermaid into a feature film, while sharing a beer and a cherry Coke with my husband as he painted with watercolors beside me—
This. This is how we should be spending life.
It’s a privileged thought—one typical of upper middle-class white folks and/or trust fund sugar babies—to flee life and move abroad to write, or fall in love, or open a bakery, while teachers and nurses and retail managers and factory line workers and farmers struggle to make ends meet while others are simply fighting an invisible disease so they can enjoy another day.
Those of us who grew up with very little, or disadvantages due to our gender, race, or socio-economic circumstances? Often the dream becomes—and continues to be—to survive, and try and make things a little bit better for those you will leave behind.
But I think that’s also why, when you have a moment—of good health, of decent economic standing, an opportunity in front of you, an interesting chain of events—it’s also good to not ignore or waste it.
Ultimately, I want everyone, at least once in their life, to have a gleeful moment where they feel comfortable enough to make a risky yet exciting choice and just say “fuck it—you only live once.”
So—if you can—
Book that ticket.
Fall in love.
Quit the toxic job.
Move across the country.
Move to another country.
Have a baby.
Get the dog.
Eat dessert first.
Dance wildly.
Laugh wholeheartedly.
Love fiercely.
Choose joy.
You might not be able to do everything, but you might be able to do one thing really, really well.
So do it.
Do the one thing that scares you, that fills your soul to the brim, that you’ve always wanted to do but have always talked yourself out of doing.
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Choose wisely. Chances are, if you wake up thinking about it, you’re already halfway there.