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.