For some odd reason, I’ve had the urge to write….constantly. I’ve been writing lots of short anectodal-type stuff (in addition to all the other stuff I write regularly), and decided to share one on here. This may be the first of many or may end up being a rogue posting. Who knows? Anyway, for your reading pleasure:
“I remember you, you’re the writer.”
We had never met before, but that was her perception of me, from my online musings accessed through a friend of a friend.
You’re the writer. It was a little jarring to hear those words spoken aloud. Sure, I’d been writing a lot lately: I have strong opinions and write passionately about them, but I never thought of myself as a writer.
“Yes, I’m the writer.” The words taste funny in my mouth. I feel a tad bit dishonest. I’m not a career writer, I don’t have a literary degree, I’ve never taken any specialized writing courses. Heck, I’ve never been paid to write anything in my life, but I rise to the occasion. It’s been spoken aloud, validated and witnessed by others. I guess it’s official. I’m a writer.
Am I a writer simply because I say I am? Or because someone else says I am? Have I been all this time, without realizing it?
I write almost every day, as if it were my work. Blog posts, impassioned essays, book reports, informational articles, self-reflections, even poetry, at times. I keep a journal, an idea book and a dream journal. I get up in the morning, and it’s the first thing I do. I don’t write because I have to, because I think I’m good at it, or because I think the world needs to hear my voice or what I have to say. No one is making me write. I have no deadlines, no one waiting impatiently for my submissions. I write for me. I write to share with others. I write because it’s important to me. I write because I enjoy it. I write because speaking is too cumbersome for me. I write because I won’t let that blank screen get the best of me. I write because I have something to say.
I am a writer.
Sometimes another’s assessment of you is more accurate than your own. Could she see that easily into me? Am I that transparent? Is it that obvious? How have I been so blind to my own self?
It took someone I hardly knew to make me realize something I’ve always known.
I’m a writer.
Does this change anything? Will I now be more critical of what I write? Will I now fear my writing won’t live up to that of a writer? Will I now expect something from my writings? Acknowledgement? Publishing?
I hope not. For now, I’m content just writing. I don’t need anything for it. I just want to keep the words flowing, edit and improve as I go, and move forward. I don’t aspire for anything more from writing than to continue writing.
It’s enough to know that I’m a writer.