I am a writer.
Pardon me while I try this out a bit. I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer. I AM a writer.
Why is that so very difficult to say in public? I spent some time yesterday in the company of writers. Some published. Some, like me, hoping to be published. And even a few that don’t care if they ever are published.
One of the published authors was asking everyone “What do you do?” and “Are you a writer?”
The answers were varied, especially to the latter question. But they had one thing in common – a tentative, self-deprecating tone. “I want to be.” “I am trying.” Or the ever popular, “Sort of.”
My day job is one of a manager. Am I the best manager in the world – heck, even the state? Probably not. But I am good at what I do (most days). Some days I suffer from “Manager’s block” when I can’t seem to focus my thoughts and the lines of communication with my team or my direct boss seem clogged with debris.
But even on those days, I am still a manager. Still the Manager of my department.
Is my writing any less? Does a day without sitting at the keyboard change who I fundamentally am? Thankfully, it doesn’t.
I am a writer.
There will be days that I am able to corral my thoughts on paper in fluent prose. There will be days that I struggle. But the yearning in my heart and in my soul doesn’t change. For better or for worse, for published or forever striving for publication – I am a writer.