I’m a writer. I’ve never been published (unless a crappy poem in my high school literary magazine over eleven years ago counts as published) but I confidently say I’m a writer.
Writing has been a part of my life since I was a kid. My first big writing project consisted of taking my Lisa Frank notebook, any pen I could find, and writing my own Stephanie Tanner story. It was early fanfiction if you must know. I’m glad to report that I finished a whole book, by hand, when I was eight years old. I proudly stared at my words and then threw the notebook aside and started a new story. I don’t know where that freedom came from, but I didn’t enjoy it as much as I should have.
Since then, well, I’m lucky if I could finish a page without overthinking each word. Writer’s block and guilt run rampant through my body every time I sit in front of my laptop. I poise my fingers over the keys, and I start to run through what I want to say. My mind goes but my fingers do not. Slowly, my mind moves from dialogue and character motivations to the laundry. Dishes. Cover Letters I need to write too. I feel my fingers slip from the keyboard and into my lap.
I feel guilty, and I move on. Letting those possible worlds die in my brain as I do the dishes. Oh, how I wish for the days where I would take my notebook and just write with a bashful freedom. I didn’t write for anyone but myself. I didn’t let what was happening in my life affect my time with my notebook and my little world.
I long for a day where I can be like that again. Just write to write. Not worry about what is happening and let those worlds that live dormant in my brain grow and thrive on the page. Someday I may get there, but until then I still think I’m a writer. I still seek out the written word. I still want to create.
I may not follow the traditional path of what the world considers a writer to be but I know, in my heart, I’m a writer.