Just for Me

I’m a writer.

There.  I said it.  I think I might have even meant it.  Well, sort of I might have meant it.

No.  Own it.  Say it again.

I am a writer.

There.  I said it again.  I might have meant it a little bit more this time.

Why do I spend so much of my life writing yet can’t believe I’m a writer?  I don’t make any sense, but since most humans don’t, I’m in good company.

What do I write that makes me think I’m a writer?

Well, I journal.  Copiously.  And I blog regularly.  I can write a mean academic essay (I mean, I did write an entire dissertation).  I’m good at telling stories.  See there; that’s not writing.  That’s telling.  Ok, fine, but the other examples are writing.  And I write stories, too, so there.  And poetry.  I even write poetry.

But is any of this stuff any good?

I reiterate; I write a mean academic essay.  Some of my stories are good, but most of them aren’t.  I’m better at telling other people’s stories than I am at making up stories of my own.  Well, a hybrid – I’m good at a hybrid.  I’m good at taking people’s stories and helping them tell them or telling them myself through a different perspective.  Some of my poetry is good.

I spend more time writing than I do a lot of other things.  I think that should count.

Nobody said it couldn’t.

But it feels like it doesn’t.

Sounds like a personal problem.

Do I write?  Yes.

Do I write often?  Yes.

Do I enjoy writing?  I enjoy having written.  Sometimes.  Well, yes, I must.  I do it a lot.

So I guess that means

I’m a writer.

Full stop.

Collage of open books by Unsplash on Pixabay at https://pixabay.com/en/books-pages-story-stories-notes-1245690/ Pretty.
Collage of open books by Unsplash on Pixabay at https://pixabay.com/en/books-pages-story-stories-notes-1245690/ Pretty.

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